


Infractions

by orphan_account



Category: Fantastic Four (Ultimateverse), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Ultimates, Spider-Man (Ultimateverse), X-Men (Ultimateverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Sexual Situations, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Kink Meme, M/M, Pheromones, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 133,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-- Hiatused --</p><p>
  <i>“This Stark man,” Aunt May said slowly, “Did he do something to you?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Made him strip bare while he watched. Made him jerk off in his lap, kissed him, touched him, fucked him. And the joke of it all was that it was Peter’s fault. “No,” he said wearily.</i></p><p> </p><p>Peter Parker develops a new super power. He quickly decides it's the worst thing that has ever happened to him. Everyone else more or less agrees. </p><p>Pre-Ultimatum, post Clone Saga. Based off of a kink meme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick and easy fill for [this prompt](http://spiderkink.livejournal.com/1612.html?thread=283980#t283980) on the Spider-Man kink meme. Then it digivolved, grew a plot, shot me in the face and ran off to wreak chaos and pain all over the word document it was scrawled upon. 
> 
> And for fair warning: the further the story goes, the more awful it gets. There's already a lot of dub con/non con themes in the beginning, but things get progressively more violent and unhappy as it goes, and not just in terms of the sex. I'll stick warnings on future chapters so that skipping out on squicky themes is an option.
> 
> I also promise it's not all doom and gloom. If that helps. At all.

When he looked back on it, Peter could see that things were going south long before the first incident. Little glances at school, Jameson growing more on edge (than usual), the way his history teacher had barked at the people in desks adjacent to his, stares that lasted too long on the street. Once he had even been groped walking Mary Jane home from school, but his hellcat of a girlfriend stole the show. She had sent the spooked hoodlum scampering around the block with only a slap and a choice selection of filthy curses. Peter just laughed because he really did live in New York if he was the one in danger. MJ laughed it off later as well and kissed him on the nose, concluding that he was simply irresistible and she would have to protect his virtue for the rest of her days.

The first sign of real trouble came soon after. Johnny Storm made good on his promise to take Peter to a ball game.

“Ooooh, that seventh inning? Holy freaking crap!” Johnny clutched at his hair and whooped, leaping all over the sidewalk like a baboon. He nearly lost his very clever disguise in the gutter (Oakley’s and a designer ball cap, the affluent man’s first choice in anti-paparazzi apparel.) “It’s still blowing my mind, man!!”

“And your cover,” Peter noted dryly. There was a gaggle of girls across the street dressed for a night on the town, whispering and pointing. “I think they’re onto you.”

“Whoa whoa!” He spun to get a good look at their spectators. A grin of pure pearl streaked his face as he tilted his sunglasses up, debonair to the bone. “Hey there ladies.”

The air was stuffed with titters and shrieks upon the reveal. One girl even started clapping so hard it echoed. “JOHNNY I LOVE YOU!”

Peter snatched the back of his jacket before all was lost. “Nope.” He dragged them off to a more private route. There was an alley nearby he knew he could change in for the long swing home.

“No, come on Pete!” Johnny made a big show of stumbling along, stretching out an arm in desperation as if the girls could reach over the pavement and pull him to safety. “HELP! HE’S KIDNAPPING ME! I’M IN DISTRESS!”

Playful boos and offers of equal love for them both followed on their way out, but Peter was not to be deterred. There was a massive WWII paper due soon and he had only battled out a total of five sentences, and Johnny had a curfew that night. When Peter dropped by to pick him up Sue had snatched her brother by the arm and ordered him not to party, patrol or procrastinate in any way on their trip home. She got a mighty stink eye for her trouble.

Johnny whisked off the hat and the glasses once they were safe in the alley, stripping down to his inflammable suit as Peter played his mirror with his own (very flammable) costume. “What if one of them was my future wife? You’ve ruined my one chance at happiness. The Bugle was right about you.” 

“Jerk.” The retaliation was fumbling, but only because it was dark and Peter’s boots were particularly trying to slip in the current weather. It was a hot spring and everything was sweat and sun and AC dials cranked to ‘Arctic’. “Like you could handle a wife.”

“Dude, just because I don’t have a training ball and chain on already doesn’t mean it can’t happen. How is MJ, by the way?” 

Peter snorted and shook his head. “Fine. Which you won’t be if she ever finds out you said that.”

“Then get me a girlfriend so I can stop being jealous of yours.”

“You say that like I have a stash in my locker.”

Their clothes switched, no longer bunched in with the bland old public but bonafide super heroes, the two shared a last grin together and agreed to do it all again sometime. “It’s just nice, you know?” Peter confided, shaking his mask right side out. 

“Doing something where we don’t have to beat down some nutjob or put out fires. Almost like we’re normal.”

“But more awesome than normal.” A pause sunk between them. Johnny Storm deigned to hug Peter proper. “You’re a cool guy Pete. Thanks for this.”

“Pretty sure I should thank you, you bought the tickets.” Peter tried to pull out but only managed to get a couple inches between them. Johnny’s hands were soldered to his shoulders.

“Well, whatever man, whatever. No big.” Peter waited to be released. He was not. Johnny had become perfectly still, staring at him. 

There was something strange about his eyes. What exactly was imperceptible; a sudden but very slight squint, or a sleepy sag, something that dulled the glint in them. The dim navy light took on odd shadows across his face until Peter realized that it was his cheeks blooming red, the flush climbing to the nose and ears. Then Johnny was much closer. There was a pause, a count of two, hot breath dusting Peter’s lips before they connected completely. Johnny kissed him. Johnny was kiss _ing_ him, it wasn’t stopping, he kept pressing in and pulling Peter’s lips apart with the force of his own while his hands cradled his head and waist. They were sealed together from the hips up. Johnny’s tongue slid into his mouth, curling softly. He tasted so much different from MJ.

Her name ripped through Peter like a bullet, sending him stumbling back as if there had been a real sniper against the skyline. Seismic wheezes for air wracked his body and he crumpled against the alley wall. Johnny blinked dumbly, mouth still open. Heat flooded Peter from top to bottom and pushed up gooseflesh, his pulse to banging against the cool metal of the webshooters. 

Dully, Peter realized he had been kissing Johnny Storm for close to a minute and had done absolutely nothing to stop it. Johnny seemed to clue in to this that same moment. He turned from red to ash grey in a heartbeat.

“Wha–“ It was a dry, rasping note and it seemed that was all Johnny could manage. The alley burst full of flame and then Johnny was nothing but a streak of light in the sky. Going, going, gone. Peter shouted after him, but stopped when windows above him began to light up. With a sharp gasp he leaped for his mask and the bag with his clothes and sprung out of the alley, firing web after web and not stopping to slip on the mask until he was on the edge of Queens itself.

He debated for a while. MJ was the thought that stopped him. Only when he thought of her did he stop kissing what was likely by now his former friend, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. He did not like Johnny Storm. He did _not._ Not in that way, never did, never will. He liked girls and that was that. But did Johnny like him? Why did he kiss him in the first place, and good god he could not spit out the taste of him enough. Why didn’t he have any tic tacs?

“Crap crap crap crap crap...” He paced torrentially. Pressed his palms hard against his head and searched the rooftop beneath him for an answer, then the stars above. Shook all over, stomped, muttered aloud to the point of neurosis and finally decided that no one would ever hear of it. Period. Especially not MJ. He wasn’t gay, it wasn’t him. But maybe Johnny was, or he was bi and maybe that was all okay, but Peter wasn’t and it didn’t matter that he let the kiss happen because he had just been stunned. Maybe they could talk about it when they had both cooled down and were thinking rationally again. No crazy hormones or misread signals involved.

That was that. Peter nodded and swung home with every confidence on his side, but suffered his worst sleep in ages that night. Worry kept him up for hours. His skin writhed under gales of hot and cold alike, and at one point he nearly tore his sheets trying to stop himself from burning to death.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He emailed Johnny. Too afraid to try by phone and still tiptoeing around the idea of prodding any of the other Fantastic Four, Peter left it at that and tried not to be badly discouraged when he had no answer the next day. The more he thought about it all the more awful he felt. Every minor exchange at the ball game had blown up into major signals that could be folded, mashed, and rehashed into something entirely different, so now Peter was half convinced that maybe this was his own fault. He could have been leading Johnny on from the start and never known. If he didn’t hear back before the weekend, he would track him down. For sure. 

The only bright side was MJ’s being utterly oblivious. For now at least, because Peter figured that once the mess with Johnny had been worked out he could come clean and explain everything about how Johnny was confused, how he had been messing with his head unwittingly and it was all a just a classic Oscar Wilde fiasco. They would laugh and get pizza after, and everything would be okay.

“Will you move, Flash?” Peter scowled as he detoured around Midtown’s King of Tools, who was standing statue still in the middle of the hallway and looking mighty stunned to see Peter coming. “I’m not in the mood for a slam dunk in the toilet today.”

Flash only turned to watch him leave with a mouth agape, but Peter paid him no attention. He was on a mission to get home early today and nothing was stopping him. He would eat, finish his homework and study like MIT was knocking at his door, and then he would be free to swing around for the rest of the evening and do what he did best. Right wrongs and triumph over evil, that sort of thing.

The first part of the plan was going swimmingly. Aunt May was staying late to work tonight, and then she had a date (a date which Peter had yet to meet, to his great ire and suspicion). In all likelihood he would be home from crime fighting before she even pulled into the driveway. Peter devoured a bowl of instant mac and cheese and whizzed through calculus, French, and even a little bit of literature before he had a hankering for seconds. That was when he heard the rustling in the basement.

Peter froze. He narrowed his eyes and fished out a broom from the hall closet. His spider sense wasn’t buzzing, but that didn’t mean he liked having mystery guests in the house. Unless it was MJ. In fact there was a strong possibility that it was her after all, so Peter lowered his makeshift weapon as he sneaked out of the hall. Yet the inelegant thud of feet on stairs told him that this was not his girlfriend sneaking in for a quick make out before supper. Peter scowled and raised the broom again, poised just around the corner. That heavy foot hit the landing and he swooped out with a hefty swing to the gut.

_Snikt!_

“OOF – Shit, kid, are you going to hit me with a broom every time you see me?” Logan, the world’s hairiest mutant that wasn’t already half animal, kicked at the severed broom bits at his feet and popped his claws back in. Peter burned red around the ears, dutifully stooping to pick up the pieces. “Knew this was a mistake.”

“How was I supposed to know it was you?!” Peter seethed from below. “Why are you always breaking into my house?”

“Twice isn’t always, smartass.” 

“It’s two more times than I’ve ever wanted, mister! And now you owe me another broom. Why are you even here?”

Logan peered around the place with an indiscernible squint as Peter deposited the broom in the garbage, penciling a trip to Home Depot on his to do list. Hopefully it would be on Logan’s dime, not his. “So your Aunt knows about you and your little tights now?”

“Suit, and yes.”

Logan snorted. “Suit. All right. She up for giving a room to a boarder?”

Peter’s jaw dropped in absolute mortification. “What?! Why?” 

“’Cause I’m tracking someone and they’re parking their ass in New York. And now that my damn face got plastered on magazines suddenly the motels here ain’t so willing to let me take a room.” He finally looked Peter in the eye. “I’ll get you a new broom.”

“No.”

“I’m willing to pay for it.”

“A million thousand times no, end of discussion!” Peter threw his arms in the air and signaled so wildly he might have fit in on a landing strip. “You are not staying here! Something bad always happens when you’re here, and I’m always the one who has to clean it up! I’m lucky my neighbors haven’t taken to torches and pitchforks by now. Besides, what am I going to say to people when they see the world famous Wolverine smoking cigars on my front porch?” He paused to glower. “And don’t say we’ll be cousins. I swear, if you pretend you’re my cousin again…”

All jokes were gone. Logan’s smirk evened out into a rigid line. “Kid. It’s important.” 

He knew it would be. Peter grimaced, crossed his arms and privately admitted that in all honesty Logan would only be darkening his doorway if it was his last resort. They were not big time pals. He might not be half-hamburger this time, but a lack of exposed guts and bones didn’t mean there wasn’t an emergency. “Did Xavier put you up to this?”

“None of your business.” That was a yes.

“And you can’t stay at Kitty’s because…”

Logan’s expression dipped into something more akin to regret, but only for the barest moment. “She can’t get involved. You know she’d tag along.”

“And I won’t?”

“If you know what’s good for you. Your Aunt’s not here?” And they were back to normal. Logan had turned around to fling his jacket on the couch and slip off his boots. Peter’s hands locked into fists as he sunk into a deep, meditative breath. 

“No. She’s out.”

“Then I’ll wait and talk to her.” Without so much as a nod or warning Logan quit the conversation, making a beeline for the kitchen. Peter squawked and ducked after him to squabble over the matter of food. 

It was decided that Peter would at least have the decency to feed his guest, no matter how unwanted that guest may be. Peter took his revenge by playing dumb and reaching straight for the Kraft Macaroni and Cheese again, as if he didn’t know how to warm up leftovers or even chop up some stir fry. He got the milk and butter ready and poured the noodles into the pot, standing guard over the stove while Logan leaned against the counter and pretended to be too cool for conversation. It was all very tense.

“So if I guess it right, will you tell me what you’re in town for?”

“No.”

Peter snapped his fingers. “Sideburn waxing.”

“Don’t give me none of this—“

“That Beyonce concert tomorrow?”

Logan glowered.

“No! _Magneto’s_ going to the Beyonce concert and you’ve got to tail him.”

“Where do you come up with this bullshit?”

Peter shrugged. “But it is Magneto right?”

“You think they’d be stupid enough to send in one guy with metal on his bones to go after Magneto?”

The man had a point. Peter waggled his head back and forth in consideration. “Well, with the number of harebrained schemes I’ve seen executed in my time, it’s not entirely implausible.” 

A snort of agreement told him he was not yet too high on Logan’s To-Slice-and-Dice list for tonight. “We ain’t the Ultimates, kid.”

The conversation could have gone on forever (he was half hoping he could irritate Wolverine out the door) and would have had Peter not suddenly lost his train of thought. He paused, staring down at the noodles as if they had had transfigured into tadpoles. And though the air conditioning was earning its keep handsomely, Peter found himself dizzied by the sun, scorching him through the windows. A glass of water was all he needed, really. He nodded to himself as he drained out the water and clicked off the burner. 

“You all right?” Logan said.

Peter continued staring at the pot. Logan had to reach over and shake him to get an answer. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I just think, um.” He snapped his fingers in manic repetition as he fished for the right words and pointed at the fridge. “Think I need some water.”

He was acutely aware of Logan in all senses when he shuffled past him to the fridge -- bodily distance, scent, sight, the worn cotton of his shirt as he clipped the sleeve passing by. The way he could feel Logan’s eyes on him, even with his back turned, and was suddenly self conscious about how his t-shirt was sloppily tucked in at the back. 

Now that he had the door open and was gawking at the water pitcher, he found that he was not thirsty at all.

“You know, I ain’t that hungry,” Logan said. 

Logan’s eyes were just flicking back up to eye level when Peter made to face him again. That pressed upon some level of suspicion, but Peter was struggling to think. The sun seemed all the more insistent on burning him to a crisp. “Yeah?” he replied thickly.

Logan cocked his head and smiled. “You going to stand in the fridge all night?” Peter abruptly shut the door.

“Nope. No.” He patted the now closed fridge for punctuation. 

“Then why don’t you—“ And here Logan snagged him by the brim of his pants, igniting several dynamite explosions when Peter felt his bare fingers curl against the skin just above his boxers, and yanked him directly into his chest, “—come over here?”

Peter could have protested. Definitely should have, but they were tightly compressed, and a strange quivering heat shook off Logan into his skin. Logan’s eyes held little light, heavy hooded as he took in air as if it was theft and nothing natural at all. The very sound of it put shivers in Peter from top to bottom. The real robbery began when Logan wove his fingers into Peter’s hair and pulled it back, leaving his jaw to drop and his mouth free to claim. 

And Logan did so. He swiped the breadth of Peter’s mouth, teeth to tongue, and bit his lip on the way out. Then he dipped in again, feeding off the keens of shock that rattled weakly inside Peter, the sound swallowed up before reaching anywhere useful. After the second break Logan gave him a hard shove. Peter fell back into the fridge as Logan pounced again. He pinned him with his hips, the buckle stamping a pattern on Peter’s stomach through the shirt, and with one hand on a strained wrist while the other held his head back by the hair. Peter could not remember getting hard any faster in his life. 

They couldn’t seem to stand the notion of separation. Logan was devouring him, and Peter had his free hand twisted so tightly in the back of his shirt he that he heard a few stitches rip around the collar. When they did pause Peter was left gasping in the reprieve. The attack turned to his neck. His face prickled as the blood rushed forth and the scratch of Logan’s stubble on his chin and cheeks was remembered, vivid red, and that not even paralleling his lips in color. Peter squirmed and moaned at the wet kisses fed to his neck. Not once did escape cross his mind. He was clinging to his captor instead, the splayed fingers of his only free hand clawing up at Logan’s shoulder blade. His legs spread just an inch for ease, knees curved around the older man’s to let him in closer, press as close as their clothes would allow and there was a bite at his collar as a reward. Peter yelped, laughed, breathless, and somehow victorious. He could feel the stiff bulge between Logan’s legs and it gave him a little jump in his belly: that was his. Logan was hard for him. He groped at Logan’s backside, pushing him in so that it strained against him through the jeans, and squeezed. Too muddled to discern how to get further. 

Logan wasn’t half so naïve. A deep throated hum rumbled through him (it was faint, but Peter could feel the vibration of that too and it made his own trembling worse, highlighting the sweat that was beginning to bud down his chest and the back of his neck) and he clapped his hands on Peter’s hips before kissing him again. They were loud; it was sloppy but less in the literal sense of messiness than the lack of control. If there was any to be had it all belonged to Logan, he was the one who rolled their tongues together and had Peter’s neck craned back a full forty five degrees to do so. But it was rushed, loose cannons. No patience to be spared. A sentiment confirmed when Logan whipped the belt off and popped the button free on Peter’s jeans, yanking down his boxers and the pants in the back to grip his freshly bare ass. Peter seized up wholly in shock, then Logan’s kisses were gone and thick fingers were thrusting into his mouth, the hand at his rear seeming to knead in time with them. Peter didn’t so much as question it. He suckled at the fingers like he was teasing out the last bit of ice cream from a popsicle stick.

Nothing seemed lewd about it. 

They peeled away from the fridge and Logan’s grip at the back began to delve further. Peter squirmed. It was all unfamiliar, private territory, and suddenly there was a pair of fingers circling what had been privy to no one. The hand at his mouth pulled away, the fingers extricated with a wet pop, and they invaded him from behind as well. The first finger probed the rim, dipped down, pushed in. Peter sucked in air with audible panic. 

“Logan, I can’t –” The finger drove in further and Peter gave a salacious moan. It hurt but he craved it, higher, deeper, red hot waves pulsating over his body from the humiliation and the heat and just how much _more_ Logan was than him. Burly, bulky man, hair from knuckle to toes and a smirk that could put Han Solo to shame.

“Shh, shh, I got you,” the man rumbled from somewhere beside his ear. He nuzzled Peter’s hair and took a nip at his earlobe, then latched his lips to his throat and sucked. Peter keened. The finger drove deeper and started to piston, in and out. It hurt so much more, but the motion started to soothe, the slow assiduating friction turning to a salve on its own, giving satisfaction impossible to describe.

The pair fumbled like this, Logan ravishing Peter’s neck and face while his hands made good use of his rear, towards the island counter in the center of the kitchen. Peter reached it first with a groping hand, desperate for a purchase. Logan came in second to swipe all its contents to the side as the second finger drove inwards. He kissed Peter ferociously twice then withdrew everything, turning him, taking the back of his head and pushing his forehead down to the cold marble. His ass stuck out in the air like an invitation, and the fingers returned at double speed. 

The neighbors had to hear them. It was impossible not to. It would have taken a full marching band to drown out Peter’s hollering as he lay face down, Logan pushing up his shirt to lay primitive kisses down his spine. But he heard no protests, saw no shapes rise in the window curtains. His erection came loose of the hem of his pants as the whole affair finally fell to his ankles. Peter groaned thankfully and reached down to grasp it, discarding his pants entirely with a little shake of each foot. In the wake of the invasion behind him he had been too preoccupied to touch himself, and it had lost some steam over the rough start. Now it stood tall once more and wicked hot. There was no incline; he went straight to pumping it at speeds high enough to match his pulse. Anything slower would have driven him mad.

Logan had been using this time to make an exploration of Peter’s body. He found his hips, his sacrum, planted a kiss there and squeezed at the soft unguarded break of his waist, traced an old scar up to the ribs, rubbing his hand up and down there like his skin was velvet, and tucking under the already crumpled fabric of his shirt to probe the shoulders, smooth out the plane between them and kiss there too, lifting the shirt further to do so. He reveled in Peter’s skin, youthful except where it was broken by old burns and scrapes and even a bullet wound, were he to reach higher and hit the opposite shoulder. But somehow Logan still treated each mark as something sumptuous. Peter tried to shift his head back far enough to see his expression. Did Logan pity him? Did the scars excite him, as a man who could get none and might live forever because of it?

None of it seemed to matter a moment later. Logan pulled back, all fingers gone but his wandering hand now firmly planted on the small of Peter ‘s back. As if he could go anywhere. Peter pumped himself harder. Something unzipped. Peter’s leg twitched and he could swear his cock jumped in anticipation. He heard Logan spit behind him, felt the hand at his back rubbing him up and down, and sensed the shift of weight. Logan spat again and this time it hit him at his rim, sending Peter wriggling at the perversity of it all. 

“Still, now,” came the soothing growl, the petting hand settling on his hip now with a firm command to stay put. Peter obeyed. Then, bigger than a finger and newly wet, Logan began to guide himself in.

“Oooh,” Peter moaned as he buried his face in the counter and gripped the ledge for dear life, even releasing his hard on to do so. He needed that extra bracing. He had only felt a bit of it through the very limiting stretch of blue jeans, but Logan’s cock was thick. Thicker than he was expecting, or perhaps that was because he had yet to lay eyes on it and had to estimate from how it felt as the head pressed inside of him. A small part of him was ringing an alarm. Peter jolted slightly, lifted from the counter a fraction and blinked up at the kitchen as the heat faltered, pain spiked, and he was struck very suddenly by how insane this all was. 

Then Logan jutted forward just a hair forward and he was goo dripping off the counter again, gnattering and heavy breathing. “Slow slow slow, please, oh my _god_.”

“I gotcha, I gotcha.” 

Logan hovered over him now, their bodies radiating the slim slice of air between his chest and Peter’s back, the cock sliding in just a bit more, little bit, further. Peter’s hair was sweat slicked and stuck to his brow and nape as he panted like a dog. Logan gave his sympathies with low whispers in his ear (“You’re good, kid, you’re so good, gonna be okay,”) and with a gentle massage to his side. His hands were massive. And at last Logan saw fit to call that enough, and he stopped to catch his own breath. He had been panting too.

Stuffed. Stuffed full, to the brim, to bursting, whatever phrasing suited your fancy, that was what Peter was. It was hot and stiff and he was afraid to move lest he break something. He clenched hard at the thought, quite against his will but his body was demanding that the thing get out. It only served to highlight the immense pressure of Logan’s cock inside him, and above him there was a heady moan. “ _Jesus_ , kid…”

And then the rest began. What came as a push and pull on the inside was a roll of the hips on the outside, the motion seamless and jagged all in one. Peter squeaked, it could not be helped, but after the first three or four his mouth stayed wide open with all sound on a halt. That same friction, that same rhythm that had started to feel more calm than alarming when the fingers were inside him was at it again, only this time more so; more of everything, bigger, slick and stiff, longer. And it was driving a little deeper each time. The outside was matching the inside now, all jamming and thrust. Greedy. Logan was getting greedy and Peter was melting underneath him.

There was a little patch that every time Logan hit it, it got a little more tingly. Pulsing. On the next thrust it increased, and on the next, then the one after that, a steady rise that chugged to life but once it was going, it was going. Strange at first but soon drifting toward divine. Peter was writhing like a serpent. He needed to touch himself again, Logan’s cock igniting every edge and nerve in his body but most of all in his rear and his groin. The sweat on his palm squealed against the marble as he slid it downward. But Logan beat him to it. With a hefty grunt and a shocking tug backwards, Peter was several inches further down the counter and his stomach half exposed to the air. Plenty of room for Logan to reach down and stroke his erection with hands much bigger, rougher than his own.

Lightning struck. Electricity shot out from his legs to his toes, shoulders to fingertips, spine to the top of his head. Everything in its wake turned to mush, blinking, heavenly mush. Peter was aware that he had screamed but he couldn’t remember prompting the sound; it just leaped out of him, chased out by the wash of pure lascivious bliss. He had come against the side of the kitchen counter, the big cupboard where Aunt May kept the soup pots and cutting boards. Big wheezing breaths were all he could manage, but there was a laugh in there somewhere. There was something very funny and very terrifying about all of this.

Logan did not let him go. He might have slowed down to let Peter ride it all out, but he was back to business soon enough and Peter had to rush to catch up. He pushed back against him even in his exhaustion, and moaned as Logan took ginger strokes to his spent cock. He was trying to coax it back into standing all over again. Peter swatted at the hand, thick-throated as he gave protest, “Wait, wait!” He needed a moment where he wasn’t in danger of burning straight to ashes. At the rate they were going and how delicious Logan felt from behind it might not take long at all.

Logan’s response was to change positions. He pulled out (Peter actually groaned in disappointment) and pulled Peter upright, flush against him. He tried to fit his cock inside again, giving a grunt of frustration before hefting one of Peter’s legs to sit on the counter and trying again. It was much easier this time, slipping back in with a simple swoosh and the thrusting resumed, shorter but faster from this angle. Peter immediately reached behind, batting Logan’s ear by accident before cupping his jaw like he wanted to. They stretched their necks to meet in a kiss, Peter leaning back as Logan reigned on top once again. It was too hard to keep up but they tried, wet smacks marking the breaks and finally settling on Logan kissing from his jaw to his shoulder, biting the cords of his neck when he thrusted deep. One hand was always on a hip to keep him well aligned, and the other roamed upwards to find his belly, his nipples, his ribs, collarbone. Smothering him and trapping him in close, even as Peter pushed back against Logan with the same eagerness that he was being thrusted into with.

He was hard again before long.

When Logan began to slow down everything got a bit rougher. Peter had stooped once more, hands stuck to the counter in support and Logan was slamming into him from the back. There was no tender touching now, both hands needed to keep a handle on Peter’s hips. Peter was howling again, and though Logan might seem to have a grip on himself Peter could hear his breath hitching every time he pushed in and heard the smack of their skin colliding. Three times, two times, once more, and then Logan was crouching over Peter and clutching onto him like he might fall to pieces if he let go, moaning into his ear and spilling inside him. It was shockingly hot, strange to feel it from the inside, but Peter knew what it was. It should have been disgusting. It should have been degrading, mortifying, but he found a wide toothy grin on his face instead. He was even stroking Logan’s arm where it wrapped around his middle.

The older man wasn’t so shaken as Peter was. Whether it was age or experience, Logan just being Logan or the strange powers he’d been born with, Logan smoothly drew back to his full height and pulled out, rubbing himself to ease the cock down. Peter took care of himself then, facing Logan with heavy eyes and a parted mouth. They held each other and kissed again, and when Peter came the second time it was on Logan’s stomach and the older man had to keep him from falling back down. Shaking, exhilarated, they simply held each other. Peter fit his head in the crook of Logan’s neck and let all sensation drain clean out.

But in its wake, he started to think again. By margins, but enough that he was washed with an ominous sense of dread.

Did he just _have sex with Wolverine?_

The concept bounced around his skull but never stuck to any cohesive thought. He felt horrified but lost the reason why the next second, turning to Logan for help. He only received the same dumbstruck stare back. 

Peter tried to push off and stand on his own. He managed to keep his feet under him, but the first step alerted him to the fresh ache and tender skin inside. He nearly toppled with the shock and would have smacked his head on the kitchen tile if Logan didn’t catch him.

“Bed…” Peter groaned. He needed to lie down for a thousand years and it was the only thought he could grasp. Everything else was aches and fuzz and spinning rooms. 

“Here I’ll help…up.” Logan’s speech was slurring. Neither noticed. Peter let the older man sling an arm around his shoulder and guide him up the stairs, both still half naked and utterly unaware of it. 

When they hit the top flight they were kissing all over again, and by the time Logan threw Peter onto his bed and descended upon him with a roar they were both stiff as rocks. They rolled, rutted, laughed and hollered, Peter’s foot knocking against the wall as Logan pulled his legs wide for better angles.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It wasn’t the message itself, but the piercing beep at the end of it that snapped Peter awake. “Aunt May?” he called out, shocked to feel the dry rasp in his throat. No one answered him. He was freezing cold. Naked in his bed and all the covers kicked to the ground. Peter sat up and stared into the dark.

Eerie silence all around. Pain in every inch of his body. His sheets felt damp, as if he had sweated out another night terror. The clock read eleven. He threaded his fingers through his hair and tried to suss out what had happened.

Memory crashed back into him with a near audible bang. Logan had been there. Logan had been kissing him. Logan had been _inside_ him.

Peter crumpled on the bed, his grip on the edge of the mattress threatening to hole punch the fabric. He nearly got sick. From nerves, or shock, from the jolt of agony that came when he moved, he wasn’t sure. Thankfully he didn’t succumb, the sensation passed and he let himself sink from the mattress to the floor. He coiled there like a bug. A few times tears threatened to rise, but he batted them away. 

Aunt May could not know about this. If that was her on the phone just now, she was either on her way back or staying even later. Peter couldn’t take any chances.

He extricated himself from the floor with great effort, hissing at the stab deep inside him. His hips had turned decrepit too, unbelievably sore and threatening to eject his legs at any second. In spite of all this, he dressed, he made it down the stairs and saw that Logan’s boots and jacket were gone, no note left behind.

“Hello…?” Taking survey of the entrance and the living room yielded no new clues. Not here. Peter supposed if it were him, he’d bail too. He shivered and pursed his lips.

He just needed to make sure everything would be okay. A spritz of Febreeze here and there, gather up his pants from the kitchen floor, wipe things off. Nothing of Logan’s remained there either. Briefly the cold pot of noodles held his consideration, but the clench in his middle promised a night spent over the toilet if he took a single bite. He stored everything into the fridge and stood very quietly in his kitchen. The neighborhood offered very little in the way of a soundtrack that night, as if it were just as spooked as he was.

Logan might have ghosted off, but he didn’t hallucinate it. The kissing and the hand job and the cold marble against his chest had all happened. But for the life of him, Peter couldn’t figure out why.


	2. A Trip to the Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter attempts to find out what's wrong with him, and like everything else he's ever done it blows up spectacularly in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only real warning for this chapter is that it's the main reason awkward sexual situations is a tag. Enjoy. :)

“You feeling all right?” Mary Jane pressed a hand to his forehead and immediately snapped it back. “Oh my god, Peter, do you not feel the inferno that is your head right now?

Peter grimaced and shrugged away, taking a ginger bite of his egg salad sandwich. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re sick, sweetie, you should go home.” He tried to look anywhere but at her. Catching her by the eyes would guarantee doom. But of course, having dated him for over a year MJ was having none of it and took his cheeks in her hands. “You’ve been looking like death all day and you’re walking slower than my nana.”

“MJ, it’s nothing. It’ll blow over in like a day.”

“Parker’s talking about blowing, what a big surprise.”

“And yet you’re the one swallowing, even _bigger_ surprise!” Flash glowered down at MJ and pulled the half eaten banana away from his mouth, but didn’t follow up. The cafeteria was too dangerous to pick a fight in. He slouched over to his own pack at a table far away. She scoffed and popped a fry in her mouth. “And of course the gay jokes start, what a classy guy.”

“He’s been calling me gay since the fourth grade, MJ, he’s just been polite around you because we weren’t together before and he thought had a chance.”

“Ew! _Never!_ ” She shuddered deeply. “But really, Peter, you need to be bundled up in blankies with a bowl of chicken soup. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

She kept looking at him. “Pete.”

“Nothing, it’s nothing.”

“Not even about— ”

“No.” The shush hands came up and he gave a perilous once over of the cafeteria, scanning for eavesdroppers. None were to be found, though he did spot Liz Allen and Kong at another table a short distance away. She was deeply engrossed in what had to be Math homework, though, etching in figures while Kong watched and double checked his own paper.

MJ put her hands on his. It made him go hot, but not in the same sense. Not nearly to the same degree as he had spiked around Logan, or Johnny. It was starting to worry him, and if it had been anyone but Logan last night he would have been trawling the internet checking if he had an STI. The man’s healing powers knocked that out of the park, so he was back to just feeling weirdly ill for no reason. He must have gone tense at that thought because she gave his fingers a squeeze and scooted closer, green eyes wide and inquisitive. 

“But you’d tell me? If something bizarre is going on? Or if it’s something you’re scared of. You know you can tell me.” She smiled, snorting back a giggle. “I’m not Catwoman or anything, but I can toss a mean right hook if you need me to.”

His mouth went dry and he had a flash of Logan in her place, looming over him, dwarfing his hands in his grip, stubble dark and tempting to touch. He forced himself to let go and brush her bangs into place instead. Beautiful bright red hair, and not like Logan’s in the slightest. “And a left hook. I’ve seen it. Of course I’d tell you.” He wanted to. “I’m just burnt out, MJ, that’s all. It’s nothing. Probably just the flu or something.” He really wanted to, desperately wanted to, even if he knew it was impossible. Not now. If he had a shred of decency in him he’d spare her the torture and break up with her right that instant. But he was bone-deep, knack kneed, hackles raised petrified. Something wasn’t right.

She would know when he knew, and knew for sure.

The lunch bell sent every student groaning and scattering, the place suddenly a flurry of bags swinging over shoulders and trays dipping over trash cans. MJ frowned, but kissed his head as she stood to leave. “Just promise me you’ll call in sick to the Bugle, okay?”

Peter started a half-hearted protest, but she was gone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He didn’t call in sick.

Call him deceitful, or maybe call him stupid, but he did in fact need to make some kind of money and no one was paying him for anything else. And he did not want to be in his house. Breakfast had been a difficult enough time as it was, his nerves spiking again as he touched the handle to the fridge and started sweating at the brow, equal parts turned on and terrified. Just the memory of it was wreaking havoc on him. Not to mention the guilt, especially when Aunt May had been the room and he was double checking every surface to make sure there were no signs that he had gotten the living daylights screwed out of him in her kitchen. He was lucky she was already eating and engrossed in the paper, utterly oblivious. She’d be fussing over him too if he went home now. Better to avoid both hurdles and get a little cash in return for it, right? MJ would understand.

Though fatigue dogged him the whole time and his hips had somehow aged seventy years past the rest of his body, he was a fairly competent employee that day. Peter took orders with little more than a standard greeting and a “Yah huh, for sure,” to spare, but he never mistepped. He plugged away at his computer like the drone he was. Not too shabby. The only off thing about it was still being boggled as to why Jameson had him move cubicles; now he was right next to the big kahuna’s office and could feel the needle-eyed glare coming at him through those blinds. He hadn’t dared so much as peek at Facebook once the whole week. Jameson was a right cranky old fart these days, particularly to Peter and not a soul in the office could figure out why.

Around an hour before Peter’s shift ended, Ben Urich meandered around with a steaming cup of brew and chatted up a storm, gathering links and sources. A familiar, if not always consistent, routine. He struck a smile as he came to Peter, which was unusual: Peter was a web designer and not doing any pertinent investigation Ben could glean nuggets from. He took a seat at the edge of his desk, only slightly brushing his inbox tray. “New headquarters, huh? How’s it treating you Parker?”

“Just fine.” Peter smiled back warmly and swiveled a bit in his new chair. Being approximately two hundred years old, it squealed like a piglet. “You’d never guess it’s the exact same brand I was sitting in before. And this sharpener, gadzooks!” He demonstrated a thorough mangling of his pencil while the machine wheezed and sputtered to do its job. “Works like a charm.”

Urich chuckled and toasted him with his coffee. “Good to hear. Just wanted to say though, if Orwell’s been giving you a hard time over this desk swap business…”

“Oh, he hasn’t.” He had, but Peter could not be bothered to give a crap about a middle aged man’s cubicle envy. Orwell’s wrath was only ever a glare or two on the way to the copier anyway. “I’m probably madder than he is. All my work clothes smell of cigars now thanks to you know who.”

“Well, just let us know if he starts. It’s not anything to do with you, he just thinks this is Jameson’s cute way of telling him he’s one step closer to the door. Which is baloney. I’ve seen Jameson chuck people out with his own hands when he fires them.” Ben gave him a wink. “Practice falling gracefully when the time comes.”

“Will do.” Peter smiled again and turned back to his screen, deleting a few strings of code before realizing Urich hadn’t left yet. He turned back. Urich was still planted on the edge of his desk, his smile turned lazy and the coffee lowered. With perturbing ease he clapped Peter on the shoulder, still smiling. Not a word.

Peter could feel himself flushing already.

Then there was an earth-shattering bang and Peter nearly toppled in his chair with fright. Somehow he had come just a hair away from Urich’s nose, the older man leaning in from atop the desk.

“URICH! My office, now!”

J. Jonah Jameson had emerged, and he was not happy. Aghast, Peter shot a look to the blinds and noticed the gaps had grown by a thin quarter of an inch. Had Jameson really been watching him?

Poor Ben Urich, meanwhile, had spilled half his coffee down his pants and for a moment seemed to have no idea where he was. “OW, Jesus – who—Hey! What, Jonah? Is there something wrong with the copy?”

“Just get in there and don’t ask questions!” 

Ordinarily there would be sarcasm and witty rebuttal, but Urich was well and truly stunned. He shook his head and blinked heavily, gave Peter a wild-eyed stare, then finally obeyed. Peter fought to not crouch low when Jameson turned his sneer on him. He raked his eyes over him, as if searching for some feasible flaw to nag at. Several gawkers stood up to see better over the partitions and Peter found himself wishing for Kitty Pryde’s powers. It would have been incredibly usefully to sink through to the floor below right then.

“And you – you’re going home early!” Peter gasped, but Jameson jumped on his protests before they could spill out. “You’re sicker than a dog, Parker! Don’t tell me you’re not. Go home and stay there, before you infect the rest of us and all we have to print next week is the damn crossword. And where's Brant? Brant – where the hell is the piece on Sorkin? I want it five minutes ago!”

A meager squeak made it out before Jameson returned to his lair, but no words. Peter could have died on the spot. Everyone was still watching. Somebody in the back gave a low whistle.

Hot cheeked and determined to avoid an even bigger scene, Peter gathered up his things and shut the computer down, hustling towards the elevator. Betty Brant tried to catch him on the way out but he dodged to his left and hit the elevator button at Olympic speeds. It was rude, he admitted it, but he needed out. Betty only wanted details for the water cooler anyway, he thought bitterly.

Peter was sweating in the elevator down. He clutched his bag close to his chest, breathing deep and choppy. A pair of men in slick suits and two hundred dollar haircuts entered from another floor. Marketing? They jabbered back and forth with empty congeniality, a regular pair of Patrick Batemans. Peter tried to eavesdrop in hopes of some kind of mental reprieve, but nothing was harder to do. Ben Urich kept flashing back in, leaning towards his face, eyes heavy lidded.

He shuddered. If Jameson hadn’t shouted at him he might be on his way home for very different reasons. Sent packing, more like. Or worse, to some kind of Human Resources clown who’d sit there and get him to fill out forms on juvenile promiscuity in the office. It probably existed. Jameson had materialized in half a second to slam Ben down, like this was something that happened all the time. And for that matter, what was Jameson’s deal? If he wasn’t barking at Peter, he was scowling at anyone with the gall to exist near him. Plus the desk switch was completely unnecessary. Peter would pass it off on his gross man-summoning juju if Jameson didn’t seem so morally opposed to treating him like a human being. He was just stuck in a heightened state of douchebag. If the puce color swarming his face had foreshadowed anything he was probably reaming out Ben Urich right now. Peter’s stomach churned.

It really wasn’t Urich’s fault. It was his. He had a problem, and he needed to take it to somebody. It couldn’t be a one-off thing. No more playing at coincidences: there was something deeply wrong with him. Getting molested this often was unnatural, let alone having marathon sex with Wolverine. 

Peter sighed and tilted his head, baring his neck for the thumb gently stroking the skin under his jaw. A groan answered him and he earned a kiss there, a slight nip from the teeth following before kisses trailed down, down, to his collarbone, jet black hair tickling him along the way.

His eyes blew wide. He was tingling and hot all over, the sensation having invaded in total secrecy. “Wait—“ he said petulantly.

No waiting allowed. A second pair of hands (the first were on his waist, somehow he’d missed that) grasped him by the cheeks and yanked his head to the left for a furious kiss. The man had charged in tongue first and bullied him with force and height, and it was all Peter could do but tilt further back and let the man engulf him. His thoughts began to drown in honey. Everything burned. Thick, sweet fog rolled in and a drop of sweat painted a trail from his hair to the rim of his brow.

Fearful and unblinking, Peter spun his sights around the elevator. A singeing red glow on the button panel and a lack of machinated humming told him that one of them had hit the emergency stop. 

He had dropped his pack. The two men from marketing continued to double team him. He was spun around to face one, who would kiss him deeply and yank on his hair while the other meddled with the buttons of his shirt or the buckle of his belt. The men's clothes were shedding too, and Peter was never sure if it was his hands doing the work or theirs. A brush against his dick made him jump. He lost the lips he was attached to so he could be snatched up by the second pair from behind. The angle was awkward, even for him, until he’d been manipulated into facing the first man proper. 

Of course, only then did trying to escape cross his addled mind. Peter wriggled, twisted, pushed at the immediate set of hands holding him in place and stretched a finger towards the button panel. 

“I’m taking you home,” one hissed in his ear. Peter whimpered when one of them swatted his ass, grabbing it viciously, “I’m going to take you home and fuck you silly every goddamn day, you little peach. Little sweetie pie. What’s your name, sweetie? Give me your number. Come on, come on.”

His head pounded. He lost his vision to a grey blur and for a moment he went limp entirely, burning to the touch and red all over. But when one of them began to lift him up, hitching him with a hand under his rear and the other pulling his leg around his waist, Peter was struck with an urgency that negated all of it. The fog didn’t clear easily but he could put his mind to one singular thought: get to the buttons. He pushed clumsily at the man’s face, stopping his shower of kisses just long enough to flop over to the side and nearly out of his grip. The second man caught him before he fell and cracked his head on the metal door, but he wasn’t quite quick enough to drag him back. Peter was in reach now, and slammed at the buttons hard enough that the panel shuddered under the force. Something worked, because the elevator hummed to life . The pair wrestled with him as he struggled to get his clothing together, cooing and trying to kiss him back in for more, but Peter was thinking much more clearly now. The doors split open, dues ex machina, and he kicked one of them in the gut and bolted as the man went down.

Peter took the stairs from the twenty second floor and furiously finished buttoning on the run what he couldn’t in the elevator. 

He waited fifteen minutes in the bottom stairwell with an eagle eye out the slender window; he tracked the two rumple-suited figures stumbling into the foyer, dazed and clutching their heads in bewilderment as they shambled out of the building.

Peter opted to swing around town instead of chancing the subway.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When he got home, Mary Jane was sitting at the dinner table with her chemistry book open and Aunt May was stirring a pot of fettuccine. His girlfriend turned around to give him a suspicious glare.

“So a little birdie told me that someone didn’t take my advice and went to work sick,” she drawled, tapping her pencil on the note paper. His Aunt chuckled and shook her head over the stove.

Peter hung his head in shame. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“I got sent home sick.”

“What did I tell you?” She sighed heavily and strode over to hug him. “You’re such a stubborn bugger sometimes.”

“And you don’t even have to live with it,” Aunt May joked, turning to wink at her nephew and crooking her finger at him. “Come over here and let me check your temperature.”

“Aunt May!” Peter groaned, but MJ chortled and steered him over. He relented with a scowl to all investigation. “I’m not that sick.”

“You are feeling fairly hot, dear. Come on, sit down, I’ll grab you some medicine. MJ, mind the pot?”

“Don’t-“ But she was already up the stairs, his girlfriend swooping in to take over the spoon. She nibbled a fresh strand before returning her attention to Peter.

“Peter, you didn’t go out swinging after did you?”

He shook his head. “No, I came straight home.” She raised her brows at him and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh fine, okay, I admit it, I’m not feeling so hot. It’s not a big deal, MJ. It’s all right, I’ll just go to bed early tonight, you don’t need to mom me.”

“I actually came over because I wanted to tell you something. I know Aunt May has you covered on the mom front.”

That was strange, if she didn’t just call him or leave him an email. “What is it then?”

“I saw Logan after school today.” That caught his attention. Peter’s eyes went wide before he could catch himself and MJ instantly switched to concerned conspirator mode. “What is going on? I saw him in the parking lot, trying to be all incognito with that cowboy hat so I ran up and asked him what was up and he wouldn’t say anything. I told him you’d left already and he just like, got a little weird and left without saying anything.”

“Weird how?” Peter prayed she couldn’t hear the trepidation in his voice. 

“Weird in that he actually looked weirded out. I don’t know. He was kind of twitchy and it looked really odd on him. Did something happen with you two?” She cocked her head to the side in suspicion. “There’s no bodies in the basement, are there?”

“No, why?! Why would you even think that?”

“Because he was so antsy! And he didn’t even like, bat an eyelash when he was bleeding his guts out behind your washer last time, so I thought it had to be something big. Peter, what is happening to you?”

He shook his head vigorously, “It’s nothing. Look, I just – he was over last night asking for a place to stay because he couldn’t be in a hotel or whatever, and I told him no and he left. That’s it.” It wasn’t right. Not the right moment at all, he could even hear his Aunt coming down the stairs. 

“What? Why did he want to, why would he even come here? Was it serious?”

Aunt May had rejoined them. She thrust a pill into Peter’s hand and froze him with a penetrating stare. “What’s serious? And who is ‘he’?”

Peter stammered so MJ filled in the blanks. Or tried to. “Well you see— there’s a guy…at school…“

“This already sounds like baloney. What are you two talking about?”

He was already doomed. In spite of the searching look MJ gave him (they had yet to define their new boundaries: things it was okay to tell Aunt May now that she knew, and things it would never ever be okay to tell Aunt May) he let at least a portion of the truth go. “Wolverine was here last night. You know, the hairy guy from the X-Men?”

Aunt May looked aghast, putting a hand on her chest. “What? How does he know where we live?”

“Oh for the love of god.” Peter was thusly dragged into a lengthy explanation of how he knew Logan, and that yes, Logan had followed him home once long before he had even told Aunt May he was Spider-Man, and that blotchy stain on the basement floor of their old house that never came out was from his blood, which was everywhere and no matter how hard Peter scrubbed it was there to stay. Needless to say he was in deep trouble by the end of it and MJ patted his back as he sat with his head in his arms at the kitchen table. His Aunt seethed as she finished off the pasta and dished it up with a fury that promised a grounding.

“I cannot believe the gall of it. Especially from you – that is exactly the point you should have told me, good lord, there was another man in my house and I never knew! And him, putting all that on you, making you take care of him when you’re barely taking care of yourself.”

“He had no choice Aunt May.” Peter protested, his arms muffling but not debilitating the message. “He was going to die.”

“You just finished saying he can’t die! MJ, how much do you want?”

“Oh no, I’m going home now Mrs. Parker, it’s fine. I just wanted to talk to Pete.” She rubbed his back soothingly. “Sorry Tiger, you’re going to have to field this one on your own. But to be fair, I did say I knew too, it’s not all his fault.”

His Aunt sighed. “I know, but one of you _should_ have come to me. All these things I could have helped you with, for heaven’s sakes, if I wasn’t grey already I’d swear you two were making me grey. From now own you tell me when you’re stashing mutants in my house, bleeding or not. No exceptions.”

Peter crumpled in his seat. And the sex thing made yet another problem he was keeping from the both of them. But this one, he felt, was utterly justified. If terrifying. And disgusting. With paralyzing horror, he realized that Aunt May would have touched the cupboard he came on last night to get out the pasta pot. 

He honestly wished he could die.

“Bye,” MJ kissed the crown of his head, and started for the door. Peter stayed at the table, immobile and tongue tied. Images of Logan came up again, and phantom breath heated his neck, whiskers brushing the sensitive skin there as he was dusted with kisses. He leaped up and ran after MJ. She was at the door when he caught her, spinning her around and squeezing her tight. 

“Peter?” she whispered, slightly stunned but wrapping her arms around him just the same.

Peter rubbed his face into her neck. Breathed in the scent of her lilac shampoo, clenched his eyes shut and dedicated himself to memorizing how she fit against him, every soft, cozy inch of her and the way her finger tips were chilly but the rest of her better than sitting by the fire place.“I love you. I love you so much.”

“Peter?” she asked again. He pulled back to kiss her and she squirmed, leaning back out of reach. “Sweetie I love you but you’re sick, I’m not kissing you right now.”

“It’s not that kind of sick.” Maybe he let a little too much slip in those six words, for now she was searching his eyes with a great deal of worry. “I just want you to know that. I love you and I always will. No one else.”

“Babe, I know. I feel the same way.” She put a hand to his cheek and looked for a moment like she might cry. “God, you’re too much sometimes. How did a girl like me ever get so lucky?”

It wasn’t meant to, but lord did that sting. Peter grimaced. “No, I’m lucky.” He swooped in and kissed her before she could back away. The guilt soured it utterly, but he held steadfast, making sure to do it the way she liked it best. 

MJ allowed it, leaning into him slightly but soon cutting it short with a gentle push. “You just want me to get sick so I’ll have to stay home with you.”

Peter grinned weakly. “You got me.”

She grinned and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m taking my vitamins tonight, jerk.” Then she was out the door and waving goodbye, her bag slung over one shoulder. Peter didn’t close the door until she was long out of sight. When he returned to the dinner table Aunt May was already eating, but eying him with a certain smugness.

“When did you grow up to be such a Casanova?”

And for the first time that night Peter smiled with real honesty. He ate his pasta in silence, and his Aunt did the same.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The advantage of his Aunt believing he was sick was that she let him traipse upstairs early and would not bother him for the rest of the night. The deception did sting, he liked being honest with her much more than he liked lying, but this time it was necessary. Completely. And he needed a fix for this ASAP, or life as he knew it would be over.

The only thing was that it was such a weird and deeply disturbing issue that he had no clue where to start. He swung near the Baxter building and the Triskelion once or twice, pondering his options. Johnny would be at the Baxter building, and even if he wasn’t he might have told the others what had happened. Then, passing the Triskelion’s silhouette again, Peter imagined confessing his woes to Nick Fury.

He immediately turned around and sought out the polar opposite of the best minds in science. 

Peter scratched the back of his head. “It’s not so much a, um, guy problem as it is…uh…”

Dr. Strange raised a pointed brow and waved his hand along. “Keep going, keep going, I’m getting a little concerned here.”

“It’s not a – you swear to me, right now, that this never leaves this room.” Strange sat up in surprise and looked around as if there might be paparazzi behind a potted plant. “No, seriously, this is beyond the regular masked vigilante stuff. This is weird and I don’t want anyone ever ever knowing anything, like not even the slightest—”

“Dear god, just spit it out.”

“—guys keep coming onto me and it’s freaking me out.” That earned him the most concise ‘what the fuck’ squint he had ever seen and Peter stopped the retort with an frantic wave of his hands. “No, I mean they are going all hypnotized and trying to molest me and I have no idea what’s causing it, but it’s an everyday thing now and I am sincerely scared to leave the house in the morning and I’m pretty sure I’ve already ruined two people’s lives as well as my own, and I’m really freaking out here and you have to help me, seriously, it is so bad you have no idea—”

“Whooooa!” It was Strange’s turn to motion him to shut up. He got out of his seat and carded a hand through his hair. “Whoa, okay, run that by me again and tone down the panic for a bit: people are, what, getting hypnotized into _molesting you?_ ”

It took a fair amount of discussion to get the record set straight. He managed to do so without invoking Johnny’s or Logan’s names, thankfully, and he kept his lips zipped about having very real sex two (possibly three, his memory was not so trustworthy there) times in a row. Even so, by the end Strange’s bewildered gape was something to behold. To his credit he was already on his feet and scanning a select few musty books he had pulled from his shelves. He shook his head and gave him no guarantees.

“I’m going to say straight off the bat that this is really unusual. Also, I’m really sorry. I didn’t say I was sorry, did I? I’m sorry this is happening to you, because if it were me…” Strange’s eyes bulged and he had to jerk his head to come back to reality. “I mean if it were girls it would be one thing, but you know.”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “No, no, that would be so much worse. I’d be defiling them, I don’t want to ever hurt a girl like that.”

“I thought these guys were defiling you? Or is it the other way around?”

“Well maybe I—“ Peter grimaced and clutched his temples. “Okay, yeah, no matter who it is there is definitely defiling involved, but it’s like everyone’s getting defiled because I _definitely_ do not want it and neither do they. It’s like, I don’t know. Some cosmic joke. But still, if it were girls I’d feel like a horrible pervert.”

Strange clucked his tongue. “Well, let’s just make sure nothing happens right now. I like women by the way, but just in case.” Peter glowered and was thankful Strange couldn’t see it under the mask. Was that supposed to mean he didn’t? 

The sorcerer slapped down a spell book and elegantly turned up his sleeves. “I just learned this one a little while ago, you’re in luck. You’re going to be stuck in one spot for a bit, but it’s the best shield you’ll ever have. I won’t be able to touch you, you can’t touch me, and it will only go poof if you say the magic word.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Your pick. When I get there, just yell out something. Anything will do.” He cracked his knuckles with a wide grin, obviously quite pleased with himself. “If it’s any kind of magic it just might be able to stop the thing from happening at all. Much easier to narrow down from there, too, knowing what spells can counter it. You want to grab a seat?”

“No thanks, too antsy,” Peter said honestly, “And my butt’s been parked in chairs all day anyway.”

“Whatever.” With a great flourish and waggling fingers, the sorcerer began his incantation. Peter was pleasantly surprised by how much English was actually involved. The air around him fizzled, even sparked once. He flinched and ducked, not sure if the tiny flash of flames was corporeal and unwilling to find out. “-and thy undoing shall be…”

The spell casting paused. Peter stared for a moment before he realized his turn had come. “Poptarts!” he blurted, then instantly regretted it. Strange popped one eye open in judgment. Peter stared at the ground. “…and by the power of Poptarts, it shall be done.” He clapped his hands and for a split second Peter was enveloped entirely with blinding white light, then everything went back to normal. Strange gave him a bemused smile as he sauntered over, rapping on the air in front of Peter. It shimmered where he struck it and sent out feathery ripples, tiny striations in the color like spun sugar, which then dissipated within seconds. 

“You hungry, Spider-Man?”

“A little. Yeah.”

“Should have asked for something before I cast the spell. I think I have some strawberry ones in the kitchen.” 

Peter’s stomach rumbled and he groaned. “Don’t tease me now.”

The sorcerer chuckled and resumed his search. “Hang tight. If I find anything I’m going to need to cast on you, otherwise I would have sent you home ages ago.”

It did take time. Dr. Strange was kind enough to put the TV on so Peter didn’t get bored out of his skull, even if the only decent thing on was reruns of Friends. He had stopped paying attention to the man some time ago, sick of watching his face for any clues as to what he was reading, whether any answers were hidden in those ancient pages. As the books began to build a tower on the table his confidence withered.

Somewhere during Ross bursting in on Chandler in London (the third episode so far tonight, and Peter was eying up the telltale lumps in the bed sheets where Monica would be), he noticed the absence of noise outside the television. Peter turned to find Strange watching him, hunched over a book but not touching the pages. 

“Hey. Say it.”

“You found something?” Peter said hopefully. He elevated to tip toes and tried to suss out the writing in the book.

“Just say the word.” Strange smiled slowly. “Come on.”

Peter squinted harder. “That guy in the picture has his skin inside out. No way.”

“Don’t worry about it, just say the word baby. I won’t bite.”

That erased all ambiguity. Peter’s eyes snapped to the sorcerer’s and saw the way the lids had fallen, just enough that the stare turned dark and secretive. Color had risen to his cheeks too, and the smile was altogether unholy. He was gripping the table with white knuckles. And there, so subtly but not beyond perception now, was the trickle of heat bathing Peter’s skin. 

“No,” he shot out quickly. He turned his head both ways. There were windows, plus the door to the rest of the house. Technically he could make a break for it. But this wasn’t a pair of mundane twerps from work. This was a guy who fought demons for a living. Icky magical things that Peter didn’t understand and he knew for a fact that he stood no chance against. If he wanted to, Strange could probably zap him on the spot the moment he broke the spell, and then where would he be?

“Don’t do that.” Strange prowled around the table, eyes locked on Peter. Any part of Peter. He blushed when it belatedly occurred to him that spandex was a terrible idea considering his ‘condition’. “Say it. We can have a lot of fun, you know. I’ll guarantee it.”

Peter was torn, mute and motionless but flushed all over, and twitching with the need for touch. He could say it so easily and they could just kiss, or something, and then he could leave. Just one little kiss, that wouldn’t hurt? That would feel so good.

He knew he was already too close to gone when he caught himself leering at the man’s lips and leaning forward, outstretched fingers brushing the glassy barrier. He had forgotten it was there for a moment, but the sudden stop gave him enough reminder to focus on thinking rationally. It was essential that he leave before anything happened. Even though he could spot a bulge in the man’s pants he managed to choke out a simple but firm, “No. I can’t.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, kid!” Dr. Strange slammed his fist on the table and snatched his groin with a salacious moan. “Just say the fucking word already, fuck fuck fuck you’re so fucking cute, I just wanna—“ And just like that his pants were down to his knees. Peter was hypnotized by the sight of his dick, angry puce from the strain of his erection and jutting out from a thick patch of black hair, perpendicular as a knife in the wall. He stroked it as he stumbled closer to lean against the barrier, one arm pillowing his forehead as it garnered a new sheen of sweat. Peter swallowed and looked down to where he worked with the pace of a jackhammer at his dick, which was pointed squarely at him. “—come all over your face, come on, baby, please, just suck me off, okay? Fucking say the word and suck my dick, baby, I wanna feel you. I wanna hold you.”

He moaned and slapped the barrier. Nothing but a mild ringing and white ripples in the air came of it, and Strange’s eyes grew even more manic. “ _Fuuuuck…_ ” He leaned against it again and kept at it. He heaved like an animal, dark eyes fixed on the whites of Peter’s mask when they weren’t fluttering closed in ecstasy. Peter was stuck in his shadow. The man was effectively draped over him in midair. The heat was making him twitch, putting his own dick in dire straits as it pushed up against the spandex of his suit. The rest of him trembled, perspired, and the need to shirk every ounce of clothing was unbearable. He wanted to touch Strange. He wanted to obey.

But enough of him _didn’t_. The barrier might not be stopping things up completely, but Peter was still a thinking, moral human being and not a brainless sex zombie. Just that tiny little protest, that infinitesimal ounce of hesitance kept him from saying the magic word and latching onto Strange’s cock mouth first. He was salivating thinking about it: and precisely because he was salivating he made himself skitter back a step. The rear of the barrier met his shoulders with a clunk. Strange whimpered, pawed at the invisible shield and kept masturbating like he might die if he stopped.

Cringing inside, Peter reached down to grab himself too. It was too hard to be in there, to keep from nixing the spell when he was so stiff he might cry. His hand dipped into his spandex and he yanked at himself too. 

“Oh yeah, baby, lemme see,” Strange cooed, rubbing his forehead against the block so that shimmering white ripples sprouted and died around it. “God, you’re pretty. Pull it out baby and let me see.”

Peter covered his eyes and kept to himself. He was loud about it, gasping and groaning and muttering utter nonsense to himself as he worked a familiar (if fervent) rhythm. Strange whispered encouragement between pleas, the words seeming to miss his ears and slide and skip along his skin instead, like the fingers Peter imagined would be there. His knees wobbled once and he had to reposition himself, step a hair wider and push his body against the pretend wall like a truss. He bit his lip as he switched to thrusting, holding his hand mostly still as he strained to picture MJ. Only MJ, having sex with her like he always fantasized before now and not Strange shoving in from behind, getting filled up to the brim and pushed at, slick skin and muscle rubbing his back as he was bent over and clutched tight, kisses on his neck so good and nibbles on his ear.

Peter panted ravenously. He was losing it, Mary Jane fluttering out of his mind and he pressed a hand against the barrier where the tip of Strange’s cock threatened to pierce it. “… _Poptarts.._ ”

And just like that he was snatched up and carted backwards, his mask wrenched up around his nose so that Strange’s mouth could find his, no matter how much of a struggle it was to keep attached as they found their way to the chaise lounge. Peter tripped onto it and Strange nearly crushed him tumbling after. 

Peter came. Hard.

He couldn’t be sure what had sparked it – the wait, the power of the fantasy itself, or even having the man collapse on top of him – but he rode it out, clutching at Strange’s shoulders and hollering as his legs jittered. The whole place went deadly quiet soon after.

Strange hovered above him. He was conscious, but blinking as if coming out from a deep sleep. His cock was still sheltered in the gap between Peter’s thighs, nestled snug against the left. He furrowed his brow and shook his head like a dog drying off. He even grunted like one.

“I…oh.” He squeezed his eyes shut and popped them open, and all lethargy was gone. With a shuddering heartbeat Peter swore he could hear, Strange examined the boy beneath him from sweat ridden mask and freshly bitten lips to the disheveled suit, pants slung low around his hips and stained where Peter had come inside them. He paled at the sight of his own erection further down. “ _Oh._ ”

Peter was lucid now too, and shaking for reasons that had nothing to do with lust. “You didn’t!” He pushed him up but tried to keep it gentle, because shoving him across the room like he wanted to was not going to help matters one iota. “You didn’t touch me, the spell held! I swear, it just – I just – we didn’t do anything. It held until now, Dr. Strange, you didn’t do anything! _I_ didn’t do anything!”

The man scrambled off of him and nearly keeled straight over. He’d forgotten his pants were hanging around his knees and had to catch himself on a bookshelf. His cheeks went pallid white as he averted his eyes and tried to resuscitate his dignity, tugging up the jeans and fumbling to tuck himself in. He was still painfully hard and Peter did his best to pretend he couldn’t see that. When he looked up again his expression had wrinkled with a thinly concealed agony. “Well,” he choked out. He took a pause that could have spanned an hour. “I see.”

Peter rolled off the couch and turned his back. As he readjusted his mask and costume he grappled for what to do next. He wanted a cure, for certain. Yet there were some boundaries that should not be crossed. It hadn’t taken long for him and Logan to have a second go, Peter thought with a cold shiver. 

“Do you need me here for—“

“I don’t know.” Strange swallowed thickly and rustled about. The soft slide of books on shelves meant he had turned around too, no more willing to look at Peter than Peter was to him. “I don’t…think I can help you.”

The silence quivered all around them. “Okay,” Peter said flatly.

“It’s not that – honestly, I just – I’ve never heard of anything like this. It’s not how magic works. Sex spells, or spirits. I’ve read – and there’s no real motive, I can’t think of how this would benefit anyone to do this to you – sorry, I can look, but. No.”

Peter covered his eyes. He had to count to three. One, two… “I’m gonna go.”

“Yes. Please.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

William Golding was a hack. If one of the so called greatest writers in history couldn’t hold his attention for more than two seconds in his hour of need, then he was not worth the time it took to read about a bunch of dumb kids getting duped by a psychopathic choirboy and his penchant for pig killing. Peter tossed _Lord of the Flies_ to the floor in disgust and decided that just this once, he was going to wiki it. He pulled his bedding around him closer and sat like a frog on a log, just a useless lump of boy and sheets.

It was two days later. He had sentenced himself to solitary confinement, but the weekend was drawing to a close and school tomorrow meant that he would have to deal with living, breathing people. Dr. Strange had become a nightmare that required no sleep. Peter winced as he pictured his dick again, furious purple with the strain of his erection and how fast he had been pumping it, the way the skin folded over the tip when he pushed up. With a groan he threw himself onto the pillows and beat them soundly. 

“Gay gay go away!” He chanted petulantly. That did nothing to stop the haunting, but Peter kept muttering angrily and pounding the pillows regardless. He was throwing a fit and he did not care how childish it was.

The phone rang downstairs. Soon he heard his Aunt’s footsteps trotting up, and a knock on the door. “Peter? It’s for you. It’s a woman from the Bugle.”

Oh boy.

With no more enthusiasm than he gave to the book on the ground, Peter stomped over and took the phone from a crack in the door. He prayed this was not a friendly request to clear out his desk. He hadn’t heard word about the aftermath of the other day yet.

“Hello?”

“Peter? It’s Betty.” His enthusiasm dropped even further. “Hey, sorry to hear you’re still sick, but I need to ask you something.”

“Yeah?” He was being rude. He felt he was entitled to it, crappy week that he was having and all.

Life, week, same difference.

“Listen, I talked to Ben the other day. He’s still here, but Jameson threatened to fire him.”

Peter’s heart sank. The rest of him followed, drifting the floor with his back soundly against the door. “Oh my god, you’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. We all think he’ll cool down in a couple days, but really, I just wanted to warn you for when you do come back in. Ben’s going to steer clear of you until it all blows over. What happened there, anyway?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened, Jameson just saw us talking and blew it totally out of proportion.”

“But why would he be so pissed about you talking? Oh – pardon my French –“

“I am fluent in French, Betty, it’s fine,” Peter rolled his eyes and clutched his forehead. “Are you going to spread it around or can I actually—“

“Spread what around? Peter, for god’s sake, I’ve been working with Ben for years, I would not jeopardize his career for five minutes of office fame. Or yours. What do you take me for? I’m _concerned_ about a friend.”

Peter winced. She had a point. He needed to back off. They might not be best buddies, but Betty Brant of all people had never done him wrong. “Sorry. I’m just a little stressed.”

“That’s fine. Tell me what happened.”

“I think Jameson might have thought that Ben was…uh, hitting on me. If you can buy that.”

“What? In what universe?!”

“I know, right?” He licked his lips and tried for some damage control. “Listen, I’m not positive that’s what it is but that’s the only thing I could come up with that would explain him blowing up like that. Please, Betty, do not repeat this to anyone.”

“Never. No one would believe me, even if I wanted to. Ben, hitting on you? Man, Jameson’s going loopy.” She clucked her tongue. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure that neither of you were going to be under fire in the future, because he wasn’t telling me a thing. Probably embarrassed, poor guy. Get better soon.” She hung up and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. 

He slinked down the stairs with stones in his gut, placing the phone back on the receiver with the graveness of a death row putting down the fork on his last meal. Then he skulked into the living room and flopped over the arm of the couch, face down, beside his Aunt, who was flipping through channels for something decent to watch. She smiled at his ungainly form, draped beside her like old laundry.

“Hey there, little soldier.” She rubbed his back. “Still feeling yucky?”

“I don’t want to do homework,” he confessed to the seat cushion.

She laughed and tugged on his arm. He scrambled his way onto the couch proper, his head in his Aunt’s lap as she traced patterns through his hair. “Wanna watch a movie, then?”

“Sure.”

She flipped through the options and settled on some half-finished action flick (for his sake, he knew, because she thought even the best action films were schlock), continuing to stroke his hair until Peter felt he might actually fall asleep. Then, as if it had laid in wait, Dr. Strange’s dick flashed in his mind again and he was gritting his teeth.

“Aunt May?”

“Hmm?”

“If things get bad...”

“Peter, what on earth are you talking about?” She leaned forward to try to catch his eye. 

“I mean if things get _bad_ , really bad, then, will you...if it ever comes to a point where it’s bad to be around me –”

“Peter.” She brushed more of his hair away and exposed his brow. “You’re stuck with me. We’re family, you don’t get to leave me behind.”

“Even if I – even if I do something really awful?”

“Baby, you’re the best person I know. You don’t have an awful bone in your body.”

He didn’t mean to let it happen, but he felt a tear squeeze out. He tried to roll over to hide it but his Aunt caught him before he could. “Oh, sweetheart, come here.” 

She wrestled him into a hug and he cried on her shoulder, curled up around her like a child. She rubbed his back and told him that she loved him, even if he had to be Spider-Man, even if the Bugle blamed him for everything and everyone else did too. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that wasn’t even close to the problem.


	3. Ten Minutes of House Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help is finally on the way, but a strange new development puts a snag in the plan and lands Peter in a tighter spot than before.

The next day he was still afraid, but desperation gnawed at him around the edges and overpowered the cowardly urge to hide in his basement. He went to school again in spite of his misgivings. Though he still had some luck left in him, successfully dodging every man and boy with a minimum three foot radius, he could not shake the terrible feeling that he was a ticking time bomb. Eventually, someone would catch him off guard, or he would lose himself before he could stop, and if it was in the middle of gym class when everyone was in their soggy shorts and jerseys Peter might hurl himself into the nearest open flame he could find. When the bell rang he wasted not a moment. He bid goodbye to a thoroughly confused MJ (he either needed an air tight alibi or the most sympathetic way of explaining this possible, and soon) and swung off to look for the most capable woman he knew for the job.

Except the Baxter Building was looking mighty devoid of life as he swung by and when he tried Sue on his cell phone, he went to voicemail. Likewise for Johnny, but then he expected no less. 

So Peter, hating himself, his life, and dreading how tomorrow might ruin him if he didn’t get a fix today, trudged his sorry carcass to the last place he wanted to go. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents regarded him impassively as he soared down onto the dock of the Triskelion, spread his arms wide, and declared, “I demand to speak with the Wasp!”

Naturally he found himself navel gazing in front of Tony Stark and Nick Fury instead.

“She’s on a date?”

Tony, being rudely interrupted in the middle of a drink for this, took a stony-eyed sip of his scotch and said, “Occupational hazard of being an attractive woman. How can we help you?”

Peter shot him a peevish look, but the effort was negated by his mask. “Is there literally anyone else here who is not a man?”

“Well there is—“

Nick intercepted Tony without a beat. “What the hell kind of a question is that?”

“Okay, okay, let me lay it out for you,” Peter said hastily, putting his hands up in surrender. “You see—“

“And why are you standing thirty feet away?”

It was a very large room. Some sort of techno-spy-computer lair, that spanned out like a limousine beyond its own credibility. It was curiously absent of peons to press the blinking buttons, but Nick and Tony had been hovering over the largest screen at the apex when he entered and quickly terminated the program before he could see it. Peter, on the other hand, hadn’t moved more than a foot away from the door he had been shown through, cleanly opposite the two men.

He shuffled his feet on the spot. “Uh…”

“Why do you need to see a woman?” Tony mused. “This isn’t some girl trouble, is it?”

“No! God!” Peter spluttered. “Why would I come to a super prison for that?!”

Nick Fury took a step forward and Peter struggled against the urge to plaster himself to the wall. “You are at a super prison, making stupid requests and getting cagey about it. Forgive us for making a stupid guess as to why.”

It was a lost cause. He was calling it. Maybe if Logan was still in New York he could convince Aunt May to road trip him out to Westchester. With the X-Men he might find at least a sliver of sympathy. “Screw this, I’m going home. This was a terrible mistake.”

“Parker, if you are going to waste my time—“

“I’m going!” he shot back irritably, jabbing at the panel beside the door. Just as it hissed to life and slid a crack open, a beep from behind forced it closed the next instant. Remotes for the doors, how quaint. Livid stomping followed and Peter panicked. “ _Don’t!_ ”

The pair were caught in headlights as Peter flipped sky high, landing with a metallic twang on the roof and scuttling into the corner. He pressed a hand to his cheek to test for heat and failed to come down from hyperventilation. Locked in. They were locking him inside here. Talk about the epitome of worst case scenario.

Tony had set down the tumbler, unfinished, in his disbelief. Nick regarded him with genuine confusion, craning his neck to watch him huddle against the roof and prod his face. “Parker?”

“I need to go!” he insisted. He didn’t feel anything yet, but that gave no guarantees. Peter would rather move to Latveria than get molested by either man. “Please, just let me out of here. I’ll grab Janet another time. Okay?”

“This is…something dangerous,” Tony concluded, drawing up to Nick’s side. “Am I right?”

Peter didn’t answer. Seconds ticked by without a word and Nick’s patience crumbled all over again. 

“Chrissakes, Parker, what is going on with you?”

“It’s just…” He lost the words. Was he really expected to explain himself like this? “There’s…I think I’m getting a new power and it’s not a good one.”

The room was quiet. Tony brushed at the fine hairs of his goatee while Nick remained as still as stone. Peter fidgeted.

“And you’re worried for our safety?” Tony gestured with a loopy wave to Peter’s perch. “Is that what the panic’s about?”

“Kind of,” came his shriveled reply.

“Is it life threatening?” was Nick’s question, and Peter shook his head no. “Then can we talk this out on the floor like civilized people?”

He retreated further. “I’d rather not.” When he saw the scowl flood back into Nick’s expression he amended his statement. “I would much rather stay out of arm’s reach, okay? And that is all I am telling you until we get some kind of competent lady in here to take a look at things. Does Sue Storm answer your calls? Because she’s not taking mine.”

“Then it only affects men?” Tony pressed on.

Peter hesitated, weighing his options to the foreboding tick of an imaginary Jeopardy clock. It was a methodical crawl down to the floor, particularly when his back was to the wall and he had to keep a sharp eye on both of the men. Nick looked fine, and Tony looked as unflappable as ever. Peter’s gaze lingered on him, shielded by the mask, and he wet his newly parched lips. “Well, yeah. So far. Can we please just respect the privacy I so very desire to have and let me tootle on out the door?”

“Let me put it this way,” Nick said, crossing his arms, “If you were in my shoes, would you let a kid who was cowering in the rafters over what he might do to two people go back to a city with over eight million in it?”

“It sounds so menacing when you say it like that.” Peter was cringing, though he privately agreed. 

A peal of laughter curbed the tension. Tony didn’t so much as cover his mouth or turn away, which had Nick giving him a cock-eyed look and Peter growing a smile of his own in secret. “Menacing. Sorry. If I had to pick someone to fit that bill you’d be at the bottom of the list.” He sauntered forward and wriggled Peter playfully by the shoulder. “I know you pack a wallop, kid, but I think we can handle whatever you dish out.”

“Uh huh?” Peter said, craning his neck to look Tony square in the eyes. They were such a striking shade of blue. Tony smiled, as if sensing that Peter was mirroring him beneath the spandex, then fished around the neck for the edge to check. His other hand went to Peter’s hip, thumbing the curve of the bone.

“ _Stark!_ ”

And quite suddenly Nick Fury was there, gripping Peter by the bicep and tucking him into his chest as Tony toppled to the ground with a yelp. He pressed his palm to left cheek, which throbbed bright right from the memory of blunt knuckles on bone. Nick practically growling at the downed man. Peter gasped and shook his head, clearing it by force. 

“See? See this is what I’m – let go of me! It’ll get you next!” Peter wrestled away and pinned himself to the wall, scuttling upwards all over again. Nick let him go, still looming over Tony as he collected his wits and dignity on the floor.

Tony blinked and coughed, chugging upright like an ancient diesel machine and rubbing his cheek with a puzzled grimace. Offended too, but mostly puzzled. “The face? The face, Nick? ” He cast a bleary glance at Peter and his eyes blazed wide. Peter skittered ever closer to the roof.

Fury, on the other hand, was spitting mad. “You walked over and started fondling him, you degenerate! What were you thinking?!”

The words hit Tony at half speed. “I did.” It was part question still, but Tony was coming to. “Oh dear god, I did, didn’t I? That’s what this is? Parker?” 

He hadn’t ripped his gaze off Peter yet. Nick joined him, still livid but somehow guarding something deeper. There was a way that his expression tightened that twisted Peter’s gut with something much crueler than embarrassment. Unwilling to divulge the details (and likely unable, considering how his throat had suddenly been entrapped in a steel vice) Peter simply nodded. A little confirmation, followed by a double check of the heat in his cheeks. He could feel the blood pounding in and around his palm, but it was dying. Why was this stupid thing always so erratic?

It took a moment for the men to process it all. Tony rubbed at his cheek some more, but otherwise seemed too ashamed to try getting on his feet. Peter couldn’t remember seeing him look this unsettled before. Nick was uncharacteristically at a loss too. They looked at one another again. 

“You ever hear of anything like this?” Nick rumbled finally. Tony shook his head in the negative.

“Not against anyone’s will, I don’t think. There’s a mutant in Estonia who emits an aphrodisiac, but she can pick and choose how she uses it. There’s that girl in the Brotherhood too, but I think she’s just got straight hypnosis. Nothing of this sort. I had no idea what I was doing until you shouted at me. Or rather I knew I was doing it, but I didn’t think twice, Nick. Nothing strange about it registered with me at all.”

Peter nodded meekly. “Yeah, that’s what happens to me too.”

Tony struggled to his feet, brushing the slacks free of crinkles and pulling his shirt back into proper alignment. Dapper once more. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I would never. I would never touch you.”

Now Peter felt like he was the one who got slammed to the floor. He gulped down the lump in his throat. “Yeah I know.”

Nick pierced him with his stare. “And it’s not the same for everyone, is it?”

“No.”

“I touched you and nothing happened. You couldn’t feel anything from me, could you?”

“Not like…no.” Peter struggled to maintain eye contact. Nick Fury was literally the last person on Earth he wanted to be discussing this with. (Well maybe not the last. That coveted spot would always be saved for Wilson Fisk.) “You and Jameson and some of my teachers. It’s like some guys are just going into guard dog mode. Jameson literally threatened to fire someone for talking to me the other day.”

The extra thread of tension withered from Nick’s face. The anger had abated too, now that Tony was being civil and making a point of standing as opposite Peter as possible. “Then you can trust me with this. No offense, Tony.”

“None taken.”

“And my apologies for knocking you down. That crossed the line.”

“No, thank you Nick. I’m glad you did it.”

Stoic, Nick Fury clapped his hand on his chin and considered their options. “But I do agree this should keep quiet. If I ask you to handle samples?”

A curt nod followed the request. “Done. I think I can control myself around a petri dish, if that’s what you’re asking.” Peter blushed beet red. Tony noticed and immediately set his gaze on the door. “Though I should leave you two to it. Don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stick around right now. We’ll fix this, kiddo. I promise.” With that, Tony made an impossibly dignified exit. Peter stared sadly after him. As nice as he was being about it, Peter suspected that he had just lost a zillion points of respect in Tony Stark’s eyes. 

Nick remained with a surly, stubborn frown. He backed up to take a pensive seat on the edge of a counter. Peter crossed his arms and waited. He was fairly sure the distance was to make him feel safer, but he still wanted to bolt. Or crawl into a hole and die. Janet just had to pick today to have a hot date.

“Peter, who else tried to touch you?”

“Oh my god.” Peter buried his face in his hands.

“I am being serious.”

“You’re making this sound like an after school special!” Nick stood his ground, immobile save for crossing his arms. Peter wondered if this was part of the weird pheromone thing or just Nick Fury, director of SHEILD, covering all bases and closing all investigations. Neither one was particularly appealing. “Are you going to go after them?”

He narrowed his eye. “Their names?”

“It wasn’t their fault,” Peter pleaded. “Come on, let’s just pretend this is square one, okay?”

“Don’t dodge. Were any of them non-human?”

“Nick, it does not matter! End of story!”

“Kid, if they did it once they’ll probably be twice as susceptible the next time they see you. I don’t want to see this ruin you.” Sensing defiance he sighed, raising a hand to halt all protests. “I know you’ve got this idea in your head already about how this is going to hurt people, how you’re a danger to everyone, all that crap. But kid, this is a danger to _you_ first. Don’t argue.” Peter shut his mouth with a bitter click and gave him a glare. “Did it ever occur to you that this means anyone could take advantage of you?”

He almost retorted that no, none of the victims so far would ever dream of it. Not in a million years. But his stomach did another somersault as he remembered the men from the elevator. Cold eyed and yanking him around like a rag doll. They might have been under his influence, but there was a seedy thread to every word, every touch. Logan had been rough as well, but he had still been Logan. There was some kind of heart in it, some consideration for Peter. He never made him feel cheap. Like a whore, came the ugly thought, and Peter went bitterly quiet. 

Nick took his silence as a yes. “And it’s not just blackmail. It could be one of the jackasses you fight regularly, they’d take this as an easy way to get back at you. Even kill you, if they’ve got you in a vulnerable position. It could be someone who realizes you can’t say no, and they’ll come looking for you whenever they feel like it. Not everyone is going to be a victim. Don’t believe it for a second. You think your Aunt would put up with you running around like this?”

“Oh, that’s so unfair! You can’t tell her!”

“I won’t. But you will.” Nick said firmly. “You tell her what’s happening to you and who it happened with because you’re clearly not telling me, and you are hanging up the mask for a week. Play hooky from school, we’ll get you a doctor’s note.”

Peter groused from atop the wall, but he had to admit that Nick was right. Time off hiding in a hole was about the only way he was going to make it through this without any further scrapes. Good code word, that. From now on it was getting into scrapes, not getting banged by older men. He wouldn’t want to scare off future buyers when he finally penned his bestselling autobiography.

With another wordless promise in his pocket, Nick deigned to remove himself from the desk and motion Peter towards the door. “A week. Probably less if Stark’s handling it. But I’m not budging on this. Keep your nose out of everything for just one week. Get a book or watch the X-Files again, whatever the hell it is you do when you’re not making my job harder than it already is.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Nick Fury had taken a blood sample without delay and sent him by web, warning him not to stray or follow up any heists he might see on the way home, because the agents tailing him had license to knock him out with tranquilizers. That was about the most frightening thing he had heard all week, but Peter understood the precautions. He couldn’t contain his new power, so they would have to contain him. He also had Nick’s solemn word that every last one of the agents on his case was a woman. There would be surveillance at his home for the entirety of the testing period and agents were settling into place as they spoke.

And for that very reason, Peter was so grateful that Nick had given up on the idea of him becoming the next super villain. He was pretty sure he would be rotting in a cell before he could draw up the first blueprint of his spider-doomsday machine.

Though, he thought with further unease, Nick Fury probably had his house bugged by the time he chugged his way into Queens. He couldn’t spot anything amiss as he peeled off the costume and switched back to normalcy, but that didn’t rule out the possibility one bit. 

Aunt May wasn’t home yet. Bitterly he hobbled into the kitchen, snagged a yogurt from the fridge and chugged it straight from the cup. How was he going to explain any of this to his Aunt? Best case scenario, she’d buy a shotgun and hunt down everyone who had ever so much as shook his hand. At worst, Peter would get shipped off to a convent and spend the rest of his life singing hymns with nuns. Maybe both. “I’m so boned.”

“Speaking of being boned…”

Peter shrieked in the least manly way possible and chucked the empty yogurt cup at the figure darkening his doorway. It screeched back in a twin frequency, slapping it into the wall with a resounding crack. Only then did he realize who it was.

“Jessica?” He stared wordlessly at his clone. She was peeking around the corner like a child stalking Santa Claus, still in her costume with her mask hanging loose around her neck. She had cookie crumbs on her face, which meant that she had been there long enough to dip into his snack stash. 

This was the second time in this week alone that someone had sneaked into his house. So much for the Nick Fury guarantee on security.

“Hey you.” She grinned weakly as she wiped her face and gestured at the kitchen. “You guys really switched up the decorating scheme when you moved, didn’t you?”

“What are you doing in my house?”

“Um.” She grinned again, broad and toothy even as her eyes darted around the place with Olympic speed. She couldn’t stop wringing her hands. “It’s kind of a big thing. I know I said I wouldn’t bother you again—”

“And then you broke into my house.”

“—right, and I will leave in a second, I promise, but I’ve been having _technical difficulties_ lately, and I was wondering if it was, um, a me thing, or like a me-being-you thing, or what, I don’t know, so I just wanted to talk for a second if you can spare me the time, and it’s not like you have a special spider signal I could shine on the sky, so here I am.”

Peter did not respond immediately. At least three light bulbs popped on at once, the irritation in his expression smoothing out to worry. “Oh my god. You too?”

“Is the ‘you too’ you’re referring to the ‘you too’ I am thinking of?” Jessica pushed her way further into the room, treading the floor as if there were landmines under the tiles.

“It totally is the ‘you too’ you’re thinking of if it’s got anything to do with –“

“—Being totally ambushed by all these—“

“—it’s completely ridiculous, but you literally cannot stop it—“

“—and they’re just as funked up as you are and you just cannot get away—“

“—and the next thing you know you’re just like, awake and horribly aware—“

“—of the fact that you’ve pretty much just ruined their lives?”

“And ours.”

“Yes.”

By this time they had drawn so close together they were whispering with all the fervor and secrecy of evil viziers plotting to overthrow the sultan. (Aladdin had been on the family channel a lot lately.) Or they would have been, had their faces not been drawn with such comical expressions of terror, gratefulness and urgency and their gestures not flown wild through the thin air between them.

“Who?” Peter asked, setting his hands on her shoulders. “Is it anyone dangerous?”

“Uh. No. Nope, no danger. I’ve been hiding away ever since I figured out what was happening. I’ve been ordering so much takeout pizza and Chinese, it’s insane. But one – oh man, don’t be mad.” She crumpled into herself and shot a shifty look at the window before hissing, “ _Daredevil._ ”

“What?!” Peter’s jaw dropped in horror. She waved her hands wildly and shushed him.

“No! No it’s cool, man, turns out he’s blind, he’ll never find me! He doesn’t even know there’s a Spider-Woman!”

“Yeah, but every other one of his senses is like, eagle tier crazy! He found me at my school once just by standing in a crowd of hundreds of kids and listening really hard!”

That took all the wind out of her sails. She buried her face in her hands and groaned deeply. “Oh no…”

The way her face fell at the news sparked a thought. A terrible one. Peter gripped her by the shoulders, panic drained from him for graver tones. “Jess, if you’re sleeping with guys…”

“Oh my god, no. You think that didn’t occur to me? I blew all my bank on like ten different things trying to make sure nothing happened. Dude, you don’t want to know the kinds of stuff girls have to do to stop babies from getting made.”

“Can’t you just get the pill?”

She gave a hollow laugh. “You have to have an identity to get prescriptions, smarty-pants.”

“Right,” he said, the word a sour taste in his mouth. This was dangerous. More dangerous than what happened to him. She groaned again and let her forehead collided with an ungainly thump on his shoulder. Unsure and casting his eyes about for signs of cameras, Peter patted her hair. “Well. If it makes you feel any better, mine was Logan.”

She rose again, brutally shocked. “No!”

“Yes.” Peter hung his head and scratched his nose. “And Dr. Strange, but that didn’t go all the way. We just did a two man circle jerk because he had put up this barrier thing? It was really sad when you think about it.”

Her hands were covering her mouth and she shook her head, eyes perfectly round and unmoving from his. “Dude, I am so, so sorry. Logan must have smelled so bad.”

“Well, I didn’t notice at the time.”

“Still though, it’s _Logan!_ ”

“Yes. It was Logan.” Peter gnawed his lip and squeezed her shoulders. “Listen, Jess, I just got back from the Triskelion, and Nick Fury and Tony Stark were both there—“

Oddly enough, she stopped fidgeting entirely. Her gaze turned from deer in headlights to deer eying up the road before leaping. “Did you tell them anything?”

“I had to. I didn’t even really mean to, I was looking for the Wasp but they were the only ones there. They’re going to work on a cure, Jess.”

“For you,” she said coldly. “They’re going to work on a cure for you.”

“No, we’ll explain, we just need to get an extra batch when they get it right. I’m under surveillance right now too, they’ll make sure that we’re completely safe—“

“Excuse you?!” she barked. The next instant there was air where smooth spandex and skin had been, and Jessica was covertly peering out the windows. Having spotted something that Peter craned over her shoulder to see, she whipped around like a hurricane. “Oh my god, you – you dick! You let me come in here and run my mouth while you were under surveillance?!”

“Jess, they are here to _help,_ okay?” Peter tried to grasp her again but she slapped his hand away and darted away from the windows, crouching near the cupboards.

“There you go again! You you you, they’re all about helping you! You’re the real person! You have your name on a birth certificate and you have a freaking family and a school! Dude, I go missing, who’s going to know? I’m the big freakazoid here, Peter, I was made in a lab! Last time I checked, they were pretty keen on unmaking me.”

“No they wouldn’t!”

“Or just locking me up so they can study me, or something! Anything, come on, did you not even once think about what was going to happen to me?! I’d be their number one chance to dissect _you_ with zero consequences! You idiot!”

She was suddenly gunning up the stairs. Peter wasted no time in giving chase, tugging her arm at the top landing with a fierce grunt. “Don’t go!”

“I have to! You’ve just Lando’d me, man!”

Peter squawked. The lowest of low blows had been dealt. “I did no such thing!”

In the ruckus, he nearly missed it. The creak of the door and the faintest buzz, drawing his attention down below. Jessica felt it too, turning in time with him as they both spotted the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents poised at the bottom stair. Both had their guns trained, one on each of their chests.

“Jessica Drew?” one called out, honey soft. “Come down. We don’t want to harm you.”

Jessica gawked, looked at Peter, then jabbed a finger at his nose and shouted, “LANDO’D.”

He swatted it away. “Screw you, I did not Lando you! If anything I’m Han in carbonite, it’s not my fault you came here looking for me!”

“Both of you, come down here. Jessica, there’s no need to be afraid.” The honey voiced one lowered her gun, but as it was the one trained on Peter that did little to ease his clone’s nerves. “He’s not lying. We’ll help you. If you leave, you’re putting yourself in—“

_Thwip._

Organic webbing. He had forgotten she could do that with her little icky glands under her fingernails. But the agents, surprisingly more competent than most people who worked at S.H.E.I.L.D., deftly dodged it and sent back fire with a small, tinny puff. A dart embedded itself in the wall where Jessica’s arm had been. She was running again.

“No no no!” Peter gave chase, tackling her down on the hallway carpet. She shreiked and punched him in the gut.

“Traitor!”

“You’re going to get hurt out there!” Peter snapped, trying to catch her arms to stop the onslaught. Jessica smartly flipped them over and pinned his hands down, straddling his waist. 

“No, _you’re_ going to get hurt! Didn’t the last time teach you anything? They’ll use this against you, man! You just wait and see! They’ll wait for an excuse and then we’ll freaking see!”

More soft puffs of air hailed the pursuit. Jessica rolled to the side and Peter nearly took one in the neck for it, had his spider senses failed him. Both were clinging to walls, one on each side of the hall. Jessica broke first but the silent agent – a sturdily built woman with an uncommonly delicate face – snatched her by the arm and pulled some martial arts magic that had Jessica flat on her back. His clone wheezed.

“Don’t hurt her!” Peter protested. The honey voiced agent cocked a gun behind him.

“We won’t.”

But the silent one was staring oddly down at Jessica as she sputtered under her foot, wild eyed at the gun being brandished nearby. Yet Jessica’s eyes rolled back to the agent, magnetized. The woman stepped off of her chest and Jessica made no move to fight. 

“So you’ll behave now?” queried the calm woman. 

Jessica paid her no mind. She was sitting upright, and the silent agent was crouching down over her. With no preamble, the taller woman cupped Jessica by the chin and pressed their lips together. Jessica’s eyes fluttered closed. 

Peter and the other agent gaped. Jessica’s arms wrapped around the woman’s neck as she was tipped further back, into the carpet with the woman descending over top. 

At least until Peter snatched her by the back of the shirt and threw her down the hall. “GET OFF OF HER!” he shouted viciously, the force of his rage shocking even him. 

Jessica, to her credit, recovered quickly. She bolted before anyone could do a thing, zipping into Peter’s room. He gave chase and so did the other agent, but she had already pried open the window and had made the leap. Peter watched her form shrink to an inch in the first leap, the first webline fired away. 

He did not wait, fishing the webshooters from his pocket where he had stashed them upon coming home. The agent cursed foully behind him.

“No, Parker! Stay put!”

“She’s in trouble!” he refuted, already at the window. His spider sense warned him of the incoming zip and he ducked just in time.

“We’ll handle it!” More cursing. Fumbling. She had used up the magazine and had to replace it.

“Was that handling it?” Peter spat, pointing at the door. The woman outside moaned in pain. He waited no more, even as the darts were whizzing past him again and one even caught on the leg of his pants. He tried not to think about the fact that he had just webswung out of his own window in civillian clothes.

Or that he was being pelted with the beginnings of a solid rain storm. Fantastic. 

The entirety of Queens was his search ground. He covered the basics, such as familiar haunts and abandoned warehouses, the school, likely rooftops. Eventually he had to swing down to Manhattan, calling in desperation as the rain came down harder, and harder, and harder still until his clothes were several pounds heavier and glued to his skin. Hell’s Kitchen was where his momentum began to dwindle, worn down by the weather and the soreness and the vampiric fatigue this was taking on his sanity. The adrenaline at the thought of Jessica in danger, Jessica being swarmed by men or women or both, against her will, started to fail. Not because he didn’t care. He did. It was because she just plain was not anywhere to be found. 

Peter collided with a rooftop on all fours and panted as rivers poured off his body, joining the lake that spanned from ledge to ledge. He was soaked and miserable and afraid, and well beyond any reasonable tipping point.

“JESSICA!” he called out helplessly. No one answered. All will evaporated from him there and then, leaning back on his heels and scanning the cityscape for clues he knew he wouldn’t find. 

Where did she go? And why was she attracting both women and men? Could it be that she was further along than he was, and soon Peter was going to be getting ambushed by everyone? What if someone was hurting her right now?

The duo from the elevator sprung back to him, their cold demands and rough tugs to his hair and clothes. _Little peach. Little sweetie pie._

Peter sat there, impotent, and watched the sky twist and darken, thicken with clouds until the whole affair went from iron grey to pitch black.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

To further prove that luck hated him and always would, after Peter had given up on his clone and raised a hand to fire off a webline all that came out was a sputter and a hiss. Mortified, he checked the other hand, managing to produce one anemic web before it was officially out of ammo. He had no spare cartridges. He also had no money. He could have shriveled up and died in that moment.

A sudden vitriolic hate for Nick Fury rose then, because clearly having an army of agents to stake him out had been total bullshit or he would have gotten picked up by now. Aunt May would be ready to kill him. Settled in an armchair and sharpening a knife to a fine piercing point. He preferred that to thinking about the reality, which would be her glued to the latest news reports and constantly dialing whoever she could get at SHIELD. If the agents were still there, did they explain what happened? Did they bolt?

Didn’t matter. He had messed up royally and he couldn’t even say it was worth it, because his stupid clone had stupidly run off when she said she wanted his help. And now he was fearing for not only his safety, but hers as well.

Peter clambered down the side of the building without any acrobatics and took to the streets, taking care to watch his step. Being in Hell’s Kitchen period was bad news. Recalling what Jessica had said, he prayed to five different gods that Daredevil wasn’t afoot tonight. That would be hideous. He tried not to think about it.

An hour passed. Another followed. A bedraggled old man with a frizzy beard hollered at him while he painted his piss on a wall, but other than that no one bothered Peter. Mugging would be too much effort in this weather. 

Or so he thought. There were muffled shots in the distance. Too far to do anything about without webshooters, even if he had started running on instinct before giving up on helping. Five minutes sprinting was already too late, the shooter would be gone. He passed a bus bench with a longing look. The soggy wooden slats looked awfully comfortable by now. It was imperative to keep moving, but he was hopelessly lost and it was looking more likely by the minute that he would have to sleep on a rooftop tonight and try not to die of pneumonia.

Then something in the distance caught his eye. A flash of bone white against the black alley ahead. He squinted, jogged forward a few paces then halted completely when he saw it was advancing toward him. A figure stepped into the staccato glow of the street light, gone jittery with the pellets of rain. The white skull insignia on his chest shone through the night even so, and Peter swore out loud. Frank Castle was on the prowl.

The man strode forward, guns trained on Peter. Patience long since made a stranger and uncaring that he wasn’t in his costume (like any real New Yorker wouldn’t know who the Punisher was), he shouted out to him. “Hey!” He thrust his hands in the air, showing he was unarmed. “Hey, are you –“

“Shut up or I’ll make you.” Castle was still far away, but he’d made progress and Peter could tell he was frowning at him before he holstered his guns. “You see anything?”

“Huh?” Peter blinked at him, then shook his head so hard he could have gotten paid work as a lawn sprinkler. “Nothing! I saw nothing! I’m lost!” Hands still in the air, Peter edged closer. And closer. Castle reached for the gun again but Peter would not be deterred. A lunatic the Punisher may be, but a child killer he was not. “Do you have a phone?”

“What?” Castle leaned closer, baffled.

“I need to call my Aunt! I am lost! I’m from Queens!” Castle swore, muttering to himself, but sheathed his gun and grasped Peter by the arm. He yanked him along the street without a word.

Normally he would mind being carted around by a murderous ex-cop with more bullets than the Pentagon, especially in the middle of the shadiest neighborhood in the city, but Peter couldn’t give two craps about any of that. All he wanted was Aunt May.

And maybe a grilled cheese. He had only eaten a yogurt after all.


	4. Maria and Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter spends a night at the casa de Castle. Mary Jane gets paranoid and takes matters into her own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to update on the weekend but that didn't happen, so have a slightly longer chapter? 
> 
> Also putting a warning here: Punisher sex. Since some might call that fan disservice I figure I'd give a fair notice. Sorry....
> 
> (not really....)

They tried a phone booth, spending what looked like the last of Castle’s pocket change. The lines were down. Then Castle tried to drag him to some nearby hostel before they both realized neither of them had cash or card on hand for the measly eighteen dollar rent. There was some choice cursing to be had. Peter tried to slink away at that point, having given up on his so-called savior until Castle seized him again and told him to not make a sound. He covered his eyes and dragged him for a long, long time, and Peter did his best not to stumble or whine but some serious limits were being breached and he was either going to pass out or beat the tar out of the man for treating him like cargo. They were wetter than the whole of the Pacific by the time they halted and Castle shifted, soft clicks like the patter of a keyboard coming from his left. There was a shrill buzz that fizzled out into a dying squeal, then they were indoors. Elevator, hall, and then a room.

Finally, Castle loosened his grip and Peter stumbled blinking into the wall.

Some poor landlord had the short-sightedness to rent Frank Castle an apartment. Miracles did happen. It was a terrible place, but far more than Peter was expecting after how often the man was in and out of jail. It was sparsely furnished, a mattress and the barest minimum of sheets on the floor and a radio in the corner. A vendor’s worth of guns and ammo tilted against a wall. Castle ordered him to stay put with a wordless glare, and Peter didn’t stray any farther than the doormat. He was already drowning it as it was.

Castle stomped around, disappearing behind a corner of the pint sized kitchen and returning with a black phone. “Don’t have a cell and don’t have quarters. You fuck this up for me, you’re dead. You never speak of this to anyone, you understand?”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed wispily. He was blinking twice as fast as normal and swaying on his feet. Castle seemed to deem it acceptable, albeit in a begrudging way.

“I would have dumped your ass if it weren’t for who’s on the street tonight.” He snorted.

Peter couldn’t help himself. “Who?”

Castle gritted his teeth. “Gavin Sorkin. And if you been reading the papers you’ll know why I’m being so damn generous.”

Peter knew. Sorkin was a nasty piece of work, a recent prison escapee. He had a penchant for skulking around schools and scooping up kids from five to eighteen. All the bodies they had found had been slashed to ribbons. While privately he knew that Sorkin would not have been an issue for Spider-Man, Peter nodded to Castle and said his thanks. He could work with the helpless lost duckling act.

He pushed clumsily at the buttons with frigid fingers and propped himself on the door for support. His eyes drifted closed as he waited for it to ring, but a steady blare was all that met his ears. Frowning, Peter tried again, and then a third time after that, Castle watching with dark eyes all the while. Impatience got the best of him and he snatched the phone to try it on his own.

“Lines are still down,” he mumbled, scowling at the receiver. 

“Yeah.”

“Fuck’s sakes.”

Peter swayed, his weight on the door rocking. “I’ll…can I stay in the laundry room?”

“Fuck you, you trying to get me evicted?”

“I can’t stay here. You’re the Punisher. You’re really going to let me sleep here with all your guns and just…” Peter clawed at his hair. Exhaustion nipped at his heels and Peter had no means left to outpace it.“I just want to go home.”

“Join the fucking club.”

Peter didn’t bother responding. The largest of his worries now was not getting home (although that was still a considerable contender), but being alone with Castle. He wasn’t feeling any sort of heat, but he couldn’t tell for sure. He cast a glance to the door and in spite of every dead-drained cell in his body screaming no at him, he debated booking it out of there the moment Castle turned his back.

A towel fell on his head. Sometime during his moping Castle had gone and fetched it from closets unknown. “Dry off in the can. To your right.” Peter blinked twice, wondering if the next thing he was going to hear was the click of a gun being cocked. It was a jostle of a kitchen drawer instead. “Get your ass in there and hurry up. You’re leaking all over my goddamn floor.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. 

There was a set of clothes waiting for him, settled atop the toilet. Wispy soap stains by the sink and a toothbrush were all that indicated the bathroom saw any degree of use. Maybe he couldn’t stay in one place too long, Peter thought to himself. He pressed an ear to the door and listened. What little scuffles and bumps he could hear sounded distant. A microwave beeped and hummed to life. Castle was focusing on dinner, and not waiting for the precise moment to burst in while Peter had his pants down. 

The sullen combination of cold and soggy was intolerable, yet even hearing Castle moseying about the kitchen couldn’t convince him to whip everything off at once and bundle up in the warm, dry replacements. He peeled off his clothes with the same wide-eyed caution animals used on roads, but kept his underwear on. Just as a small precaution. 

All of this seemed too domestic for a man like Frank Castle. Peter scrubbed every drop of moisture off his body once he had taken a cautionary sniff and discovered the towel was recently laundered. Which had prompted the image of Castle thumbing through a trashy magazine at a laundromat while his linens spun around behind him. Peter supposed he couldn’t solve everything with a well aimed bullet. Shooting open a can of Campbell’s for dinner, shooting your clothes dry, shooting the garbage bin when it got too full. Amusing, but impractical. 

Peter pinched his brow, gripping the sink with sickly fingers that tingled as the cold slowly trickled out of them. How tired was he if he was already one foot in cuckooland? 

Castle had taken his shirt off by the time Peter emerged, but stayed in the sodden pants of his costume. Peter averted his eyes instantly and surrendered the towel, which Castle took without a word. “I left my clothes on the edge of the tub.”

A grunt was his sole acknowledgment. Castle rubbed himself dry and headed for a different door. Peter fidgeted with the shirt on loan, which sagged dejectedly to his left where the collar crept closer to his shoulder than his neck. He probably could have squeezed a whole second Peter Parker in there. If he had found Jessica in time they could have given it a whirl.

There were two plastic bowls on the counter, hot beans steaming in each. The bowls were different sizes and clearly salvaged from a thrift shop. One much larger than the other, but it didn’t look as if Castle had been trying to skimp on portions. The bean blobs were about equal by all estimation. When he emerged from the bedroom in a wife beater and ratty old jeans, Castle grabbed the larger and a spoon he’d put out adjacent. He leaned on the counter and ignored Peter entirely as he ate. Peter played zoologist rather than touching the remaining bowl, boggling openly.

The Punisher ate reheated beans for supper and only owned one real spoon. Peter’s was still in take out plastic. He used cucumber scented dish detergent which currently laid toppled over behind the faucet, and had a french press drying off next to the sink. An honest to god french press, like coffee was a delicate business and not a wake up drug.

Castle didn’t so much catch him staring as shoot him a slow, unappreciative glare that promised pain if he didn’t stop gaping at everything that instant. Peter emancipated the take out spoon and crouched over his beans. He held onto the counter as he ate. Each bite woke him a little more, hierarchy of needs and all, but he still couldn’t shake the woozy quiver in his legs. He only got halfway through the beans when he set the plate down and surrendered his head to the counter. The clock on the microwave read 3:17 am.

“Bed’s in the other room.” Castle said coolly. “You’re in your own clothes and gone by seven. And that’s being generous, so don’t fucking push it.”

Peter doubted his clothes would be any drier in four hours, but he lacked the strength to argue. It wasn’t as if he wanted to walk home in the Punisher’s hand-me-downs. “What about you?” he asked faintly.

He snorted. “I don’t sleep at night.”

Peter ought to have guessed that himself. 

All that waited for him beyond the door was a queen size mattress dressed with mismatched pillows and sheets. A rumpled pile of clothes lurked in the corner. There was no other furniture to be found. It looked a hell of a lot like heaven to him. He was asleep before he hit the mattress.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was one hour and sixteen minutes later that Peter was broken out of his sleep.

Though he was worn to a fine nub and his body ached from far more webswinging than he ought to have attempted in one night, some treacherous part of him switched his brain back on, and Peter was tossing and turning with complete consciousness. He kicked the sheets off and flopped on his belly. The impending threat of summer had kicked in with its sickly hot nights, though the rain drummed away at the window even now. Peter groaned and rolled onto his back. A wrinkle furrowed his brow.

There must have been children living here some time before Castle had taken up residence, because there was a smattering of those glow in the dark stars and planets on the ceiling. Their numbers were few and distant, and they had dimmed and jaundiced with age, but they clung to the ceiling still. Which Peter thought odd because it was a one bedroom apartment, so had the kids slept in the same room as their parents? It could have easily been hipsters getting ironic and cutesy with their décor, he mused a moment later. Not that it mattered to anyone anywhere why the stickers were there.

A bead of sweat fell back into his hair. Ripples of the hot muggy air licked at his skin. He wiped at his face with furious irritation and kicked his legs. He still couldn’t sleep. Now that he was awake again it was too easy to keep the magnetic pull of sleep on his eyelids at bay. He couldn’t hear anything outside of the rain clattering gracelessly on the window, and the room was as stuffy as an oven. How anyone could live in it was beyond him. If there really were children around at any point they must have suffered greatly. 

The inward rambling came to a merciful stop when, much less mercifully, he heard the doorknob click and the brush of sturdy wood over carpet.

Castle stood in the doorway. His form was swathed in darkness, the light a halo fanning out from every hair and fold of his clothes. Peter propped himself on his elbows. His own legs were lit by the checkers and slabs that escaped from around Castle. It painted him like stained glass. 

They watched one another. Castle moved something to his lips and Peter heard the slosh of liquid. A can of beer. The tinny sound of it splashing against its container stifled the pelting rain as Castle drank. 

There was some left when he stepped out of the door. Castle crouched at his feet, one hand planted for support outside of his calf, and handed him the can. Peter took it timidly, the dew on the can a cold shock and the liquid a bitter godsend. He wasn’t certain he liked beer in the first place but he drank it anyway. 

“Better?” Castle rumbled. Peter nodded. “AC’s a piece of shit.”

“Uh huh.” Peter pressed his lips to the can again, seeing no sign that Castle wanted it back, and drank until it emptied. The can was still cold so he pressed it to his burning cheek. The icy metal felt as good to the touch as mink. Condensation and the dew already gathered on it sent a drop down his chin, plummeting to the borrowed shirt. “Did you want…” He held out the can, thoughts scattering. When Castle’s fingers closed around it, brushed Peter’s even as he was letting go, a riotous shiver rattled through him and curled his toes. 

“There’s more in the fridge,” Castle rumbled, making to rise. Peter snapped his wrist in a tight grip and the man twitched. It was difficult to tell what was in his gaze in the muddy darkness. 

“Don’t go.”

As Peter shook again and moved closer, Castle refused to budge. An unexpected fascination took over all else as Peter reached upwards to feel his face. Castle was burning at the cheeks too, the bristles of his stubble trapping a bead near the edge of his jaw. Castle grunted at the touch, pulled his head back just a little but Peter only closed in further. Entranced. His hair was only faintly damp still from the rain and felt thick and wiry under Peter’s palm as he cupped the back of Castle’s head. He leaned forward and pressed their lips together.

Something raw and wounded was in the keening sound that Castle made as he turned his face away. Peter’s gut jolted with remorse but he wanted to make it better, so he surged forward again and kissed him openly, one hand on his shoulder and the other at the nape of his neck. Castle tensed under him. He could feel the muscle go taut in his shoulder and rubbed at it desperately, curled over to grip his bicep instead and stroke up and down. 

He had to go in for seconds before Castle began to kiss him back, dropping the can and reaching forward to grab Peter in kind. When they parted with hot puffs of air, noses still touching and eyes shut, Castle mumbled, “Maria…”

Peter didn’t comprehend anything but the need to kiss him again and did so. Castle said no more.

With dumbfounded clarity, Peter became positive in that moment that he was the stupidest person on the planet. There was no sudden heat wave. It was just Frank Castle being drawn in, from the other room to the bed, and now to the hem of his shirt as he lifted it up and rested his forehead there, putting a tender kiss to his belly as he held him by the waist. Peter shivered, dimly aware of the true cold of the room clawing at the fringes of his awareness. He was burning up all on his own, and Castle was going down with him.

Peter carded his fingers through the closely cropped hair. Castle kissed his body luxuriously, lifting his middle off the mattress as he licked at the skin, hot tongue worsening the fever. Peter arched backwards to compensate, breath shaking. His cock was already stiffening. He had let the heat stew too long – it had to have manifested while he was sleeping, just laying there _sleeping_ \-- and now it had ravaged his mind before he could form a single protest. 

He drifted back to the mattress. Castle tugged the shirt off and set to the work, calloused, sturdy hands sliding up Peter’s chest. He rubbed into the thin muscles over his ribs. Stiffness, tensions Peter hadn’t realized he had held there melted away with every slow stroke. He felt a little like crying as Castle put a kiss on his collarbone and had no idea why. Castle held Peter’s head in both hands as if it were made of glass while he strayed upwards, nipping at his throat. His weight had settled over Peter. Castle was a thick set man. He might not have had the addition of adamantium on his bones to double the weight, but the pressure of his body and its girth still incited small pangs of claustrophobia. Peter was never quite so aware of how small he was as when he was being pinned down; be it fights or, as of late, sex.

Castle reached his jaw, showed it the same attentions he had shown the rest of him, but he didn’t kiss him on the lips. 

Panting, Peter watched the dark void that night had made of the ceiling as Castle disappeared from view. The pants were loose enough on him to simply slide down, but Castle took the time to pry open the button and the zipper and fold the fabric open to the side. Peter’s underwear was damp from the rain, but bearable. Less so now that he felt it peel free of the skin on his cock. That sealed the deal. Peter was hard as he could be even before Castle reached down to kneed his balls and kiss the junction of his hip. Though he could see it coming by now, when Castle took his tongue from the base of his cock to the very tip Peter lost all semblance of calm. 

“Oh god,” he mewled. His legs seized completely as Castle took it into his mouth, his knees up and feet pointing cruelly, toes jamming into the mattress. Castle pushed them down without pause, rubbing his still clothed thigh while he bore down on Peter’s cock as if it were something sacred. Castle’s mouth was a stifling place to be, volcanic and sloppy with spit. His lips were chapped but they were slick by now, and sinfully enticing as they squeezed and dragged over his cock. Castle couldn’t take him all the way in but made up for the difference with a hand stroking simpatico. Peter was sweating against the mattress. The fabric picked at his back as he wriggled over top of it, each move a failure to cope with the shocks streaking out of his member and into his every nerve. Peter cradled Castle’s head but could not guide him, too lost and all too willing to let the much older man take control. One of them knew what he was doing, at least.

And he was close, so extremely close, but Castle drew away just as his body threatened to let chaos loose and Peter genuinely howled in grief at the loss. “Wait!” He reached down himself with a craze he didn’t know he possessed but found his arms shackled back on the mattress, Castle not exerting his strength but hovering over him as a warning. He did kiss Peter then. Soft and sumptuous, the stubble an afterthought and the sour traces of beer in both of their mouths turning sweet. He could feel his blood throbbing furiously in his legs, still smarting from being so close to orgasm and denied at the very cusp. Peter wrapped his legs around Castle’s waist and rolled his hips, his cock streaking over the wiry hair of Castle’s stomach. It was such a comparatively disappointing sensation that even with his desperation, he still didn’t come. With a charitable push Castle prised himself free. He pulled the pants off entirely and then tugged Peter’s body towards him, sitting back on his knees and heels in between Peter’s legs, using them to twist Peter over to the side. Once he got the gist, Peter complied and rolled over for him. 

Now that he knew what to expect he was not at all surprised when freshly wet fingers probed at his rear. Peter closed his eyes, lying on his side and gripping the edge of the mattress as Castle worked him into suitable shape. It felt much nicer than the first time. Sharp pain lingered, naturally, but it seemed to him much more malleable.

When it came time to stop, Castle laid down alongside Peter and huddled around him from the back. There was some fumbling. A zipper coming undone and the shuffle of fabric indicated that Castle wasn’t bothering to remove his clothes entirely. Just enough to get the deed done. Peter heard him spit copiously into his palm and squirmed with anticipation both fearful and needy. He hoisted Peter’s top leg high to better fit against him, his own cock was standing tall and bumping insistently against Peter’s rear. It incited a fleeting flash of guilt: Castle had spent so much time on making him feel good and Peter hadn’t done a thing to return the favor, and it was too late now. He supposed this would be where he paid his dues, but he still bit his lip and turned his head, trying to reach his cheek with an apology kiss. Castle met him by the mouth instead, and slid himself in.

Logan was slightly bigger, from the first feel of it. That did not, however, mean that it was any less difficult to take. Peter shuddered at the laborious push. It was a little harder without the extra bracing of lying face down. He had to hold himself on his side with an arm soundly planted on the mattress, and Castle did his part by cupping the inside of Peter’s top leg, keeping it in line. Stove top hot and thick, Castle’s cock threatened to incinerate Peter from the inside out with every fraction it pushed in. He was moaning piteously. Castle gave his sympathies with saccharine kisses to his neck, devouring him with such precious consideration that Peter wanted nothing more than to curl up and clutch his head.

Mary was on his mind again. Mary kissed him like this, slow and tender and cupping his face in awe, as if he were so much more than a scrawny punk from Queens. This time her image didn’t stop him from pushing back on Castle, or even turning his head to catch his lips again and swipe their tongues together. It only hurt. His chest was threatening to collapse and his throat was tight around the lump that had formed there. He needed more of this and he was getting it from the wrong person entirely.

When Castle began to pump into him just as methodical and deep as the kisses on his neck, Peter knew what was wrong. Castle was fucking him like they were in love.

He gagged himself on his knuckles then, biting down on one with his eyes clenched tight. He shivered with the need to sob but refused it, pushing back as Castle pushed in, exerting all his focus on the good bits. He was still blisteringly hot and needy. Nothing had changed, just a little stab to his chest and prickles at his eyes. Peter touched himself and thought of Mary Jane.

It took longer than he expected. Not only because of how suddenly things had soured but because of how languid Castle was taking things. Not that Peter was complaining. He was being thrust into deeply from behind as Castle reached over and stroked his belly and sucked on his earlobe. It felt like worship. He felt less and less human with every move. Fire everywhere, just like how he imagined Johnny Storm might feel when he engulfed himself in flames and shot off in the sky. Peter buried his face in the mattress and hollered, tugging at his cock and torn between flashes of Mary Jane kissing him, under him, and the reality bearing down from behind. He liked it. He loved it, more like, complying without a hitch when Castle rolled them over and thrust into him from on top, blanketing Peter so that only his legs and his arms peeked out from underneath his body. Peter abandoned stroking himself then, letting his cock simply rub against the mattress. Castle’s weight made it harder to breath, but everything else intensified too. As terrifying as being trapped was, or being bullied down by someone who was easily twice your size, Peter found there was a secretive thrill to it now. Pinned down, nowhere to go, let it all go.

He did. They both did. Peter went first, his cries muffled by the mattress as he came into it. Castle rolled his hips in closer, flush against Peter’s rear so that all he had to do was rut slow against it and the both of them were melting messes. The hair of his chest was sticking to Peter’s back. He kissed the top of Peter’s head and entwined their fingers together, pumping closer and closer until at last he was spilling inside of him. Castle groaned into Peter’s ear before patching it with more kisses. He suckled at a tender spot on his neck as they rode the last shocks out.

It was a luxurious stretch of time that they spent simply nestled together. Castle was still inside him, but winded. Neither moved, simply content to stay put. Peter had no choice in the matter anyway, face down and stifled as he was. The pangs in his chest may have softened with climax, but they had not fled entirely. Castle’s bulk worked the same as a cocoon of blankets, a quaint faux haven from the ills that dogged Peter at night. There may be wetness where his lashes brushed the mattress, thoughts of MJ getting the best of him before they finished, but he was safe now. Safe and cozy.

Until Castle inevitably pried himself away. Peter stayed motionless below him. The grimace and the mounting disappointment was palpable, no sight required to know what was happening up above. “Oh…hell…”

Castle pulled out, rolled off, and the mattress dipped from the opposite side. He was silent. He did not leave. Peter took this as a sign to follow suit, pushing himself into a sit with some struggle. His muscles had turned to jelly, and his rear smarted. Not half so bad as it had with Logan, but enough to make him wince sitting up.

Peter didn’t so much as peek at the man. His focus was honed in on the little fibers of the carpet. Most were beige, but each little lump had a few strands of chestnut woven in. He scratched at them, pulling his lips into a prim line.

“I’m sorry.”

He expected gunfire. Even now he expected his spider sense to blare and to find Castle sneering with a pistol poised behind him. Or even a flurry of curses, a fist rocketing into his face, a growled order to get the hell out. What he got instead was a very simple and very firm, “No.”

Peter did look then, baffled, to find the man was hunched over much the same as he was. A pregnant pause put answers on hold. 

"No?” Peter pressed eventually.

“It was me.” Castle shifted just enough to look him in the eye, the thin bar of light from the still open door striking him into view. Peter was surprised to see the face which naturally took to grimaces and scowls was doing neither. The lines had slackened. He looked much older now, he wasn’t tensing in his brow, the corners of his mouth, his shoulders. Everything sloped downwards with dejection and sorrow. Unsure if he had meant it as a question, Peter nodded. “You know who I am. And you know what happened to me.”

The silence crept back in as Peter calculated out how to respond to that. Nothing would be appropriate. The man’s family had been slaughtered by his old police partners. On a picnic, in broad daylight. You would be hard pressed to find someone who had a rougher past than that. “Yes.”

“That was the first time. Since she’s been gone.” He wiped from his brow down to his chin and jutted his head in the opposite direction. Peter’s heart was crawling up to his throat as the implications settled in. “I couldn’t stand the idea. Not with anyone else. It hurt, and it still does. A big damn hurt.”

There was a strangled noise inside the bear of a man. As Peter watched him work through the stormy silence, pity began to eclipse his sizable shame. “But it didn’t hurt. For the first time I couldn’t feel it sitting in me like some kinda...some kinda disease. Fuck.” He grumbled into his hand and it was unclear whether a word of it was meant to be understood. “But you…you’re just a fucking kid. _I’m_ sorry. I’m the one who…”

Peter didn’t have the courage to tell him it was because of power gone tremendously wrong. Pheromones or a curse. And it was him who had pulled Castle in, pressured him into kisses and tugged him down. Castle had tried to turn away.

True fear swallowed Peter whole, and he knew then he couldn’t leave. Running away was going to ruin them both. He scooted closer in earnest. “No, no, you’re not. It was me. I did it, I made you do it. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done…And I get it about your—” he halted, instantly regretting his presumptuousness. “Not like…I get what you’re saying. I understand. You didn’t do anything that...”

Castle turned. “I don’t even know your name.”

That quieted Peter all over again. Should he go there? Should he lie? The Punisher was the kind of person he could run into again as Spider-Man, and the less information he had the better things would be. It couldn’t stop his mask from coming off and the guy putting two and two together that way, but he had already mentioned Queens and his Aunt, and that was far more than he should have let go in the first place.

The fraction of hesitation made all the difference. Castle held up a hand to halt him before he could open his mouth. “No. Don’t. I don’t want to know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The fuck are you sorry for? You’re what, sixteen?” He buried his face in his hands again. “Jesus Christ. You’re just a kid.”

The implications were seizing Castle by the throat. His jaw was clenched hard; Peter could see it plainly in the sparse column of light from the open door. The heat had seemingly seeped out of him entirely, so it might have been pure Peter Parker that reached out and took Castle’s shoulder with a ginger grip. The words were smooth and soft but cut hard when Peter said, “I kissed you first.”

He was not keen for a repeat and the door was a much friendlier option than staying on the mattress was, yet he stayed put. Logan had vanished but knew enough about strange powers and circumstances that Peter knew he could explain if he had the chance. Strange had known what was happening from the get go. Castle another case altogether. Nick Fury had been wrong. Peter was still intact, but the people who came to him were crumbling apart.

Castle shook, but didn’t brush him away. Peter fretted for a moment. He settled on wrapping his arms around the man – even though he was afraid of a repeat, even though he was afraid of the man himself – and guarded him close. It seemed that he had made the right move when Castle only nestled into him, dropping his forehead onto Peter’s shoulder with a solemn heaviness that nobody should have to bear.

Considering how often he had swooped down in the nick of time and punched out muggers, villains, murderers and even a rapist or two, Peter was used to embraces from complete strangers. Most often grateful mothers, or young girls and even younger little boys. He remembered saving a kid from a fire once and the little guy would not let go of him until they found the ambulance with his father in it, and even then he wailed for “Piderman” to come with him and tugged at his suit. Doing this with a fully grown man, however, was a first.

Castle snaked his arms around him with equal need. Peter rubbed his back, let himself be nothing more than a five foot five teddy bear. Frank Castle, crazy gunman vigilante though he was, deserved that. At the very barest minimum.

So Peter didn’t make so much as a peep for the rest of the night, finding his eyes blinking slower, the lids lifting less and less, but even as the man holding him brought him down and began to drift off to sleep Peter waited, making absolutely certain he was at peace before he let himself follow.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She, unlike her boyfriend, had no spider senses. No preternatural instincts to warn her when something was up. She did have, however, a working brain and a finely attuned gut for this sort of thing by now, so Mary Jane didn’t need super powers. She cast a roving glare over the flood of teenagers swilling around her. She slammed her locker shut.

When she shuffled into class, she didn’t open up her books. She pressed them close to her belly, the sensation of the sharp corner on her binder pressing into her side helping to ease the turning of her stomach. She stared down the empty chair ahead of her. Occasionally, she would check the clock. Her classmates filed in, loud and obnoxious as ever. Liz Allen gave her a quizzical look from the side, and Kitty Pryde continued to pretend she didn’t exist. 

“Hello? MJ?” Liz poked her with the friendly end of a pencil. “Emmy-Emmy-MJ. You need to come down from space.” When she was finally rewarded with a sour look she scoffed. “Oh my god, what is up with him this time?”

“I don’t know,” Mary answered honestly, and flicked the back of his empty seat. “He won’t tell me.”

At that, Kitty did turn her head ever so slightly. She sat up near the front in this class, so all Mary had to look at was a wave of thick brown hair and the petite shoulders peaking out on either side, but she knew eavesdropping when she saw it. She pursed her lips and turned back to Liz. “You saw him yesterday though. He’s so sick. Burning up.”

“Yeah, but why are you mad then?”

She was loathe to lose her grip on the books, the pressure steadying her nerves, so she shook her head ferociously instead and let her hair whip about her face. “He’s just a tool sometimes. Big strong man things, you know the drill. Oh baby baby, you wouldn’t understand.”

Liz rolled her eyes. “Oh do I hear ya.” She giggled. “Maybe he’s on the rag.”

It was a little running joke that Mary never appreciated, because Liz could not and would not understand exactly why her boyfriend had a right to be so moody all the time. She gritted her teeth as usual and gave a pleading, “Oh, come off it. He’s having a rough time.”

“Again? With what?”

“I’m just saying…” The teacher, a balding man named Mr. Foggerty, strolled in at that moment. And Peter still wasn’t there. Liz was upright in her seat in a flash and Mary followed suit. She let her gaze drift to the door once more. Five minutes. She was giving him the requisite five minutes to stumble in and look like an ass for being late when he was hobbling because he’d gotten shot in the leg, or he had been out all night trying to evade some mutated megalomaniac, or worse.

Five. Ten. She gave him twenty in the end. And normally she might respect his privacy, or just wait out the day so she didn’t arouse any suspicion, but this time was different. This time, he wasn’t well. There was something big going on and he was clearly under the weather. With what? Who knows. It was anyone’s guess, but considering his history (and hers) she could make some pretty wild ones. 

So by the end of those twenty minutes and at the precipice of their quadratic equations review, she worked up the nerve to pull something she hadn’t dared since the second grade. She jerked her head forward and covered her mouth, wincing hard.

Liz immediately came to her rescue. “MJ?” she murmured, quite concerned.

She swallowed nothing and gave her friend a shaky smile, lowering her hand. “It’s nothing, it’s fine. I think I’m just—“ And she gave another jolt, harder this time and slapped her hand back on her mouth so quickly that half the room was now enraptured by her show. Mr. Foggerty turned from the board, looking at her with intense perplexity. “Miss Watson? Mary Jane, is everything all right?”

And she went for the gold. Another lurch and she leaped to her feet and sprinted for the door, whispers and low whistles following her exit. She heard Liz shouting in her defense and Flash saying something stupid about needing to barf if he had to kiss Peter Parker too, but she was zipping fast down the hall and soon lost track of them. Other classroom rackets followed her as she dashed for the exits, all pretenses of impending vomit gone, and she flew out of the school like a bat from a cave. Her momentum carried her down the steps and some ways into the parking lot, where she stopped to gather her wits and her breath behind a navy blue Sedan. 

“Okay, hooookay.” She wheezed and sniffled, the effort seeming to have made her nose run. She hadn’t really gotten sick from Peter, had she? Mary tucked her hair behind her ears and cast her eyes around the parking lot. Empty as cookie jar at a day care. “What do I do now?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was only a miracle that let him wake before Frank Castle the next day. They were still huddled together when Peter blinked his way back into the world, Castle’s arm tucking him close against his chest and Peter hugging him around the middle.

With exceedingly delicate caution, Peter managed to slip out of bed without alerting the other man. He crouched near the end of the bed, gathering his underwear and studied him. This would be the part where he would note how peaceful the man looked when he slept and act as if it were a complete revelation that sleep was peaceful, but that wasn’t the case here. Castle seemed to have drifted back to surliness, mouth tight at the corners and his brows determined to meet. 

It was a brief reprieve then, what had happened last night. Peter’s heart sank and he wished he had brought money with him. He ought to get him a croissant for when he woke up. A Sorry-I-Messed-You-Up-Worse-Than-Before croissant. Or a Please-Stop-Being-So-Sad-Inside-It’s-Not-Your-Fault croissant. Castle groused suddenly, flipping over and Peter shot up to his feet in such a panic that he bolted out of the room and gingerly shut the door behind him.

He was still naked, too. Peter grimaced and toddled into the bathroom to find that while his jeans were still, predictably, damp, his shirt and socks had dried nicely.

“Small miracles,” he muttered to himself, and fiddled with the shower faucet. He treated himself to as compact a shower he could manage before bothering with the clothes.

If he couldn’t buy him food or even bring himself to leave a proper note, Peter decided that doing up the dishes was the next best thing. It was two bowls and spoons though, which did not quite feel like enough, so he rifled through the cupboards until he found the coffee and pre-scooped it into the French press. He set out the only mug in the cupboard as well, and an apple he found in the fridge. Gifting Castle with his own food, what a classy move.

Which reminded Peter that he was starving and needed to get a move on. He didn’t let himself look into the fridge again. He refused to take any more from the man than he already had. Obviously he was living on food stamps he nicked from people next door, because no one was going to pay the Punisher a dime. 

Peter took one last look at the barren apartment, squashed down his lingering flickers of guilt, and left. Maybe if he saw him as Spider-Man again sometime, he could do him a favor. Of some sort.

If it was ever safe to try being Spider-Man again.

The day was bright, sunlight glinting off of the ponds made by the torrents of rain the previous night. Peter had to dodge getting splashed twice by passing cars as he meandered out of the block. He did not look back to check the building number. He did not take note of the street signs or the landmarks, save for the thorny silhouette of Manhattan in the distance. He headed staunchly in that direction, determined to reach it within the hour. He could navigate his path back home easily enough from there.

“Hey! Hey! Hold up boy, where you going?” 

Incredibly, there was a man trotting up behind him with a mile wide grin on his face. He was unshaven and smelled vaguely of booze, even if it was only two in the afternoon. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Yes?”

“I saw you walking by and I wanted to talk, you know? What’s your background?”

Any and all courtesy flew out the window. Peter rolled his eyes dramatically. MJ got this a lot. So had Gwen, who had always told them something blatantly ridiculous such as, “Spartan,” or “I hail of the Wootanoogieboogie tribe.” Peter opted for leveling the man with a flat look and a droll, “Currently? Super sketchy convenience store, with a dash of homeless drifters.” He jerked a thumb over to where there was a trio of ragged old men in parkas, seated on blankets in front of a mini mart that boasted withering fruit inside its thin barred windows. The squatters waved back to him and showed off their checkerboard smiles, more teeth lost than retained in their days.

“No no no, I mean what are you?” He stepped closer, tilting one shoulder in as if to herd Peter to the left. If he thought he could succeed he was mistaken, because it was a really wide sidewalk and all Peter had to do was scoot out and around him. “You look Jewish. Am I right? Hey, where are you going?”

A dismissive wave was the most courteous goodbye Peter had to give, several steps into his retreat already. “Do not need this right now, dude.”

“I’m just trying to be fucking nice!” the man spat at his back.

Peter gritted his teeth. “You’re sucking at it.”

Around the corner was a seedy looking bar and grill, already peopled by scruffy types who banded together from a seeming love of denim and plaid. Not wanting to attract attention Peter bowed his head as he passed, but heard kissy noises being made in his direction. Someone even called out to him with a “Hey Sweetie! Slow down, what’s the hurry?” Dogged but not deterred, Peter only quickened the pace and sourly thrust his hands into his pockets. Was that the pheromones again, or was he just happening to pass by the monthly gay asshole convention? Aside from getting slapped on the butt a couple weeks ago he had never heard of guys getting harassed like that. Not in public, not in broad daylight. That was strictly reserved for douchebags hounding girls.

His chest went increasingly taut. The whole street was a long stretch of wastrels and drunks and leathery faced cynics, whose eyes locked onto him as he passed. As if they could tell just by looking that he did not belong, no matter how bedraggled his clothes or how low he slouched.

Peter tried to keep walking, but then a sharp buzz halted him in his tracks. His spider sense had resurfaced, low but persistent. He whirled to see what kind of threat was coming at him and found himself toe to toe with a behemoth of a man, all ragged blond hair and feral lines cutting his face. Red eyes that seemed to cut into him like lasers. A tinge of familiarity struck Peter, but the memory was slippery as a silverfish and he lost the thought before anything could be done.

Too bad, because a little foreknowledge would have helped him as he was snatched by the shoulder and tugged inwards, praying mantis style, and suddenly subjected to a thorough hair sniffing. Appalled, Peter gave it no second thought when he punched him square in the temple. He didn’t care if he wasn’t in costume and people saw him fighting. He needed to get out of there. The man grunted in surprise and the grip loosened just enough for Peter to wriggle free and bolt. He hadn’t gotten more than a three second head start before he was caught in a cruel grip, prisoner again to even more invasive sniffing, and that was when he remembered. 

The first time he had met Logan, he had been fighting this man. Making a massive ruckus. This was the same one, he was sure, big and growly and perhaps looking more like he was raised amongst mountain lions than even Wolverine did. A mutant? One of Magneto’s?

Hot air hit his scalp with a heavy whuff, and a satisfied rumble deep in the man’s throat. Like the purr of a jungle cat. “What do we have here?” he rumbled, the sound hitting his ears like the heavy bass vibrations that rattled speakers.

Peter could feel himself getting flustered, warmth prickling at his skin even as his eyes were wild with dread. He scrambled against the grip like a bug on a web, all limbs and bodily spasms, trying to slam his elbow into a tender spot before the heat rose any more. “Get off of me, asshole!”

Some of the locals, having ambled along after the action or watched coolly from their huddles and designated patches of wall, were jeering uncouth things. There were equal calls for beating the tar out of him and making sure that he was shared, which only fueled his struggles. Somehow, it was still futile: either the man was anticipating his surprising burst of strength, or he was too far gone to register that it should be unusual for a teenager to hit that hard, but Peter was making no headway. His feet had been torn from the ground and he was wrapped up at the shoulders and hips by arms as strong as cables.

He was faintly aware of a car honking at them. Peter didn’t look, occupied completely by his attempts to incapacitate the Sasquatch holding him hostage. It honked twice more, piercingly loud from close proximity, and the small crowd was finally alerted in to their audience. Everyone looked over at the same time.

It was a gorgeous foreign model and brand new from the look of it. Pearly white and sparkling. Seeing it against the pallid, ransacked backdrop of Hell’s Kitchen seemed almost as if someone had dropped a diamond in a litter box. A wave of awe dampened the hot tempers and agitation, and even Peter’s foreboding rise in temperature came to a plateau. Out stepped a smartly dressed (and rather burly looking) chaperone, but one easily guessed that he doubled as a body guard by the coiled wire in his ear and the gun readily holstered at his hip. Most importantly, there was the title tagged to his lapel; no name, just the logo. 

Luck, for once, was on his side.

“There a problem here?”

He was looking pointedly at Peter. Everyone seemed to follow his gaze, including the giant holding him still. Peter’s face contorted and he finally kicked where it counted: the kneecap. He snarled in pain and Peter made to flee, but he noticed the chaperone waving him over and hitting a button in his open door.

The backseat unlocked with a click.

He leaped into the car as the chaperone did the same, sliding coolly into the driver’s seat and hitting the gas before Peter even had his door shut proper. He turned to watch the small mob mill about on the spot, uncertain of what had happened or why, and noted with a heavy stone in his gut that the burly man was staring him down through the rear window. Even though it was tinted, even though they were already turning a new corner at breakneck speeds, Peter could feel him look square into his eyes the whole time. If ever he had to define the word ominous, it would be that.

A soft, “Ahem,” reminded him that he had company. Just as he suspected, Peter swiveled to find a familiar face. Albeit a much more welcome and impeccably dressed one.

“You’ve got terrible taste in men, kiddo,” Tony Stark raised a cool brow and smiled as Peter let out the world’s most grateful sigh of relief, slumping in his seat. The logo on the driver’s badge had been enough merit to hop in, but having the real deal in the car was a godsend. “You’re lucky I took that shortcut today.”

“Just keep on that side of the car and it will stay that way.” Tony grinned wider at that.

“Will do.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mary took to the newsstands first. Local cable on display televisions for electronic stores, gossip, the latest headlines on her phone. Not a one of them included Spider-Man. Not even the Daily Bugle on mobile, though she had refreshed it a grand total of five times. There was some nervous cursing and serious consideration that she may have made a huge mistake.

Then again, the lack of news could very well be the big headline she was looking for. If Peter had disappeared, if Peter had been kidnapped or worse, then it might well be all hush hush. Reporters couldn’t be omnipotent. She dialed Mrs. Parker twice, but both times she was sent straight to voicemail. She even went the extra mile and called Mrs. Parker at work, only to hear that she had taken the day off ill.

Something was undeniably up. 

She had run around their usual meeting spots. She had even stopped at his favorite street vendor: the deep fried pretzel guy. But only because she was passing by anyway and hungry herself and if it was just official Spidey business he was skipping class for and not a brutal kidnapping, maybe he would have stopped for a snack. According to the vendor he hadn’t. She gobbled her pretzel bitterly and moved on.

Were the Fantastic Four still out of town? She peered up at the Baxter Building’s apex, poking out of the cityscape like a sore thumb, and tried to recollect a news story she had seen three days ago about a big science meeting they were at. Her phone battery was threatening to expire and she didn’t want to waste it scrolling through archives, so she went ahead and dialed Johnny anyway. Mary crossed the street as the rings went: two times, three times, four.

“Come on, pick up, pick…up…” and just like that she was not paying much attention to her phone at all, because a stocky man in a cowboy hat had just crossed the other way. Mary watched him. Then, uncaring that the walk sign counted only three seconds left, darted back the way she came. 

Her sudden pursuit prompted nothing from her target, though a huddling trio of prepubescent boys snapped to attention with hopeful looks. She bypassed them entirely, still running after the distant man and hoping she was right.

He had turned down an alley. A really disgusting one, that Mary knew for a fact hosted local crack heads most nights of the week and wasn’t that much sunnier during the day. Tandy Bowen had nearly gotten shivved trying to cut through it drunk one night, or so the rumors went. Her lip curled in distaste. But, she decided, some boys were worth following strangers down dark alleys for.

Except that sounded super sketchy. Following them for information purposes, thank you very much. She peered around the corner, pausing to ascertain that it was only a garbage bag by the dumpster and not a cleverly camouflaged mugger, then stepped into the entrance with a power pose and pointed at the man. It was very Sailor Moon of her. “Logan!”

He stopped in his tracks and Mary was elated to find she hadn’t been seeing things. The mutant pivoted in surprise and gave her a look that read more of being told to shovel out the horse stables than anything else. Which only made her all the more suspicious. “Aw, hell,” he grunted. “Thought I smelled something familiar.”

“That had better not be a crack at my hygiene,” Mary growled, stalking forward. “We need to talk.”

“Now, look –“

“Where is he?”

“Kid, you’re gonna need to cool your jets.”

“No. I will not. No jets will be cooled.” She came clean into his personal space and poked him menacingly in the shoulder. In spite of this, she was a shade shocked when he drew back and gave her a baleful look. “I need to know what’s going on. Where is he? You know something, don’t tell me you don’t.”

“I don’t fucking know what happened,” he snapped suddenly. “That’s it! I would have never – not him. Fucking hell, I don’t know why, but I would have _never_ touched him. You got that?”

And it was Mary’s turn to fumble. “What? You did what?” And then, horrified, “Did you – did you hurt him? Is that why he’s gone missing?”

“Wait, what the hell are you…” Logan squinted at her. “Shit, he’s missing?”

“ _Logan._ What. Happened. To Peter?!” She had the audacity to try and shake him by his jacket, but he was having none of it. Her wrists were immobilized by hands that dwarfed her own and Logan’s face gained a wash of angry maroon.

“I’m telling you, I would never have fucked him if I was in my right mind! Got it?! I ain’t seen him since and we’re keeping it that way!”

The pause was terse. Mary was looking up at him with her jaw gone slack. Then she tittered, anxious and a little queasy, wriggling her arms until he was forced to let go. 

“Oh my god Logan! Was that a joke? Why would you say that? That’s not even remotely funny.”

Logan, who had been anything but cool moments before, dipped down from his temperamental high and regarded her with a strange distance. “Kid.”

She covered her mouth to stifle the giggles, waving the subject away. That was one mental image she would have to file under Never to See the Light of Day. “No really, uncalled for. To the highest degree. Can we be serious now? Can you please just, like, tell me what happened with you and Peter that he’s gone AWOL now? Do you know anything? At all?”

“Kid,” he pressed, putting his hands on her shoulders and swallowing. Nervous. It wasn’t a look that suited him. “Christ, he didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“I thought that’s why you followed me.” Mary paused. Her smile twitched at the seams. Logan grunted and gave her a little shake. “Kid. I fucked –“

Mary frowned. “No.” She shook her head and tried for a laugh, but it hit all the wrong notes and withered into silence soon after.

“Yes. I did. We did.”

“No. No you didn’t.” Disgust, confusion, and a spark of vitriol vied for control. Together they contorted her wary smile into something ghastly, as if she had just walked in on a gruesome murder. He hunched over further to better meet her eye.

“Listen to me.”

The notion hadn’t even hit her brain when she heard the slap connect. Almost like reflex. Logan only blinked, his head now tilted to the side, and turned calmly back to face her. Her mouth was dry as she protested again. “You did not.”

Solemnity was all she could see in his eyes now. It was hard to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

Her mind was stuck wading in molasses, lagging behind her body. She felt herself heaving, felt tears curve under her jaw to roll down her neck and wondered how she had missed them sprouting to life. Still, she was shaking her head no. “You’re lying. You’re _lying._ He _wouldn’t._ ”

Logan said nothing. He hung his head low. Mary trembled in his grip, sucking in air with a rattles and wheezes and letting rivers spill over her cheeks. Then the tension, taut as wire cable between them and just as strong, snapped. With a tempestuous scream she began to beat on whatever parts of him she could. His hat fell off in the onslaught, but he made little effort to defend himself. She had never hit anyone so hard in her life.

“YOU BASTARD. YOU SICK BASTARD!” Her fists were flying at his face, and when he deflected them with a half-heartedly raised forearm she tried to wind him with blows to the gut instead. “You asshole! Fuck you! Go fuck yourself, don’t you ever come near him again! I’ll kill you, I swear, I…oh my god…” 

She grasped at her hair and yanked, hard, wishing furiously it would rip out and take her skull with it, teetering away from the man. Everything inside her was squeezed tight, boa constrictor grip and the air slowly crushed out of her lungs. The pity in Logan’s eyes, the mournful frown he wore sickened her. Mary whimpered and turned her back to the man, buried her face in her hands and sobbed there. The sounds were muffled outside of that sanctuary, but they echoed in her own ears. Her voice had become small and needling, yet nothing could lessen the venom when she said, “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

To Logan. To Peter. To both. Logan just happened to be the only one around to hear it.


	5. Good Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan is unhelpful and Tony is too much so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for light spanking and very mild humiliation.

Mary couldn’t be counted on to keep track of time in such a state. All she knew was that there was a point where her body stopped spasming and she could only feel her pulse, jerking the veins wherever the blood pumped strongest, like she had run a marathon and had only now come to a complete stop. The tears didn’t cease but they were no longer erupting out of her unbidden. She was hiccupping. And she still felt sick to her stomach, and she hurt madly like she ought to rip off her skin all at once, but these things all slowed down just a touch. Enough that Logan, who hadn’t been wise enough to leave despite having had every chance to do so, felt it safe to put a hand on her back.

“It wasn’t right,” he started, and gave a dissatisfied grunt when she ducked away from his touch. “Listen, I mean it. There was something not right about it. Neither one of us wanted it, there was something not right.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” She gave a malevolent chuckle and hiccupped halfway through. “You actually – you need to get away from me.”

He rounded to face her properly, which earned him the privilege of a slight lift in her head and deadly glare. “Kid, I’m not shitting around. There was something _not right._ I’ve been around a long time, and I’ve seen some things, and I know when my head’s being messed with and when it isn’t.”

Mary continued to glower. “Are you saying,” she began, her voice gone husky with hatred and strain, “that you want me to believe that Peter, my Peter, tricked you into this? With him?”

“No. He wasn’t right either. Jesus Christ, shut up and let me fucking finish.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, asshole.” 

The mutant’s patience had worn thin. The next thing Mary knew her hands had been ripped away from her face and he shook her by the shoulders, turning her into a captive audience. “Stop that. What I’m telling you is important. I know it hurts, but you gotta listen. There was something fucking with both of our heads that night. I didn’t know what I was doing or saying, and I can’t even remember all of it. Like I was drugged.”

“Oh my god, so what are you saying then?” Mary wrestled loose and threw her hands in the air, thoroughly disgusted. “Roofies? Somebody roofied both of you just to let you go at it? Please, I’m not an idiot!”

“No. I’m saying it’s the kind of thing that ain’t natural. Like how I can heal back from the worst things, or your boy can crawl up on walls with his sticky little fingers. Ordinary drugs wouldn’t work on me.” He patted his chest. “They run right through. You would have to make them special order. And maybe that’s exactly what happened, or maybe it wasn’t. I can’t even get a good drunk going for more than five seconds, you know that? But this thing, this wasn’t natural. And you need to trust me on that.” At the face she made to that proposition, he added, “Or at least trust him. Fuck, you think he’d want to take a go at me? Look at me. Hell, look at you! He’d have to be a damn fool to let a dame like you go, or raging gay. And we both know that ain’t it.”

Seething still, Mary pursed her lips and quelled the urge to start hitting him all over again. Whether it had been in the stereotypical Will and Grace sense or simply staring too long at shirtless men at the beach, Peter had never once shown signs of being gay. Her memory banks had stacks upon stacks of evidence to the contrary, late nights with his hands brushing the gap between her shirt and jeans and how his eyes glazed over at spring break programming.

He had still slept with Logan.

Her gut coiled with indecision. There was plenty else in the mix too. Hate, despair, loneliness, doubt, self-loathing, Peter-loathing. A whole gamut of ugly things. She thought about the last few days. How ill he looked, how pale, and how he seemed extra jumpy. Secretive, furtive, even from her. He didn’t like going down the halls. He dawdled on purpose until they had cleared out by half, and thought Mary hadn’t caught on. She had. He hadn’t been going to work. If the news reports were anything to go by, he hadn’t been going out as Spider-Man either.

It took some careful consideration before she spoke again. “So. Something wasn’t ‘right.’” Her tone was still speculative but Logan appeared relieved to hear it all the same.

“That’s it.” Logan sighed deeply and wiped at his face. “I don’t know nothing about him taking off. But if he’s spooked as bad as I think he’d be, he might have gone for help.”

“And what if he hasn’t?” Mary countered flatly. “What if someone bad’s got him?”

The look he shot her was stone hard. “I can’t do much for you. I’m here on my time. But you can bet your ass Fury and his boys will be on it.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re just going to go? Just like that?” Mary tread after him appalled as the mutant made to leave. “We need to find him! It’s the _very least_ you could do! Fury tried to arrest him last time!“

“Exactly,” Logan growled back. “When did that kid ever make a mess that didn’t put Fury’s panties in a twist?”

Had it been the black of night, he could have coolly disappeared and left her stammering alone in the dark. But it wasn’t, so Mary had to watch him walk out and kick herself for not following. Jump up and throttle him, punch him in the eye. Yet she did none of these things. She was hurt and exhausted and angry at everything, and she wasn’t sure how much more of Logan she wanted to deal with in the first place.

Plus, it occurred to her suddenly, perhaps Logan had a good reason to steer clear. If Nick Fury found out what he did to Peter he would kick his ass straight into orbit. 

She narrowed her eyes at the empty alley and sniffled, wiping a leak from under her nose. Mary might just shine his shoes special for the occasion.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fury hadn’t lied. There had been agents watching him, and they had trailed both him and Jessica until, naturally, they had lost them both. And since then neither one could be found, Peter having run out of webs and thus disappearing from the skyline and Jessica having retreated into wherever her latest hidey hole was. The whole of SHIELD had been told to keep an eye out, Tony explained ever so casually, but Hell’s Kitchen had been on the lowest list of priorities simply because it wasn’t a hot spot for Spider-Man. Why would he wander in there while he was so vulnerable, after all? The agents had been focusing on Manhattan and Queens mostly, with lighter surveillance in the rest of the Burroughs. The first and foremost reason he had not been found earlier, though, was far more disheartening: he wasn’t too high on the priority list.

“That guy holding you back there,” Tony said with a pensive squint, widening the door for Peter to a sumptuous lounge room in the heart of Stark Towers (and graciously letting him shimmy up the wall to put extra distance between them) that he had assured him lacked surveillance and boasted stealth-grade windows, “I might need to gloss over the dossiers again, but I’m fairly sure he’s in with Magneto. In case you haven’t been in the loop, there’s been some activity on that front. You know what the Brotherhood of Mutants is?”

So, there was one answer. If the X-Men had sent Logan to snoop around town and Peter had run into some old foe of his, there was very little chance the two weren’t connected. He wondered if Logan had bailed after leaving him or stuck to it. Either way, he clearly hadn’t found that blond man yet. “Yeah, of course. Everyone does. I was even dating Kitty.”

“Kitty?” Tony looked at him blankly.

“Walks through walls? Cute brunette, about yea high,” he held his hand just shy of the top of his head. Even though he was currently five feet above Tony the message remained the same.

“Oh right, yes, I remember. You two on the news, the new ‘it’ couple.” Tony winked at him conspiratorially. “Though that sounded like a past tense there.”

“Yeah.”

“The redhead?”

“How did – yes, Mary Jane, how did you know?”

Tony sputtered with laughter. “Her name is _Mary Jane_?” To his credit he tried to mask the laughter as a cough when he saw Peter’s dead lack of enthusiasm, but no one was fooled. “Well, she’s a looker, I’ll give you that. Feisty little thing too. I saw her when she chewed out Fury in those old Fantastic Four hand me downs. She a mutant?”

“No. She…no, there was a thing.” Peter titled his head back and forth, muddling through the details and deciding it was not at all worth it to reveal them. “There was a whole thing, but it’s over now. She got shot up with Osborn’s gobliny formula once, but Reed fixed her. She’s normal.”

Disapproval came in the form of a heavy eye roll. “Osborn,” he muttered, as if the word were a thing you had to scrape off the bottom of a garbage pail. “Right. Anyway, this mutant shake-up. It’s mostly underground right now and I would not be leaking a word of it to you if it wasn’t for your little problem.” He shrugged apologetically. “But since you did happen upon one of these schmucks today, I strongly suggest you try to stick to your house arrest for a while. Until we’ve sussed out what’s going on with you. With the increase in mutant activity around town, Nick’s expressed some concern.”

“I didn’t leave to go be Spider-Man,” Peter protested hotly, “I left to make sure that—“

“Yes, your clone? Am I right? If there’s any way you could get in contact with her, she deserves a fair warning.”

“Whoa, okay one? If I had that I wouldn’t have gotten lost in Hell’s Kitchen looking for her, and two, what exactly is your stance on her right now? I mean SHIELD as a whole? Because after yesterday I cannot blame her one little bit for pulling a Houdini, to be quite frank.”

All that righteous indignation earned him was a second shrug and complete non-chalance. “You would have to ask Fury about that. I’m not involved there. Good luck getting a straight answer. You hungry?”

He was. So much so that he was sure he could get a PSA made about him and collect donations from generous callers, yet he only winced and said, “Thanks, but honestly I just want to go home. My Aunt is literally going to strangle me.”

Tony stopped beneath him, smiling and doing so genuinely. “She hasn’t stopped harassing us since last night. I’ve already put in a call.”

“But I’ve been with you the whole time!”

“Correction, I’ve had a call made on my behalf.” He waggled his wristwatch. “Instant communiqué with the rest of SHIELD, completely inconspicuous. Terrible to bring on dates. You bump the wrong button and suddenly you have to file reports about what you did to Jessica Alba on a plane to Jamaica.”

Peter blinked. “Is that a real anecdote, or…”

“Also, don’t get too excited. I’ve made some headway on your samples.”

Too late. Peter actually leaped down from the wall and Tony took a few precautionary steps back. Peter respected the distance but couldn’t help leaning forward in his eagerness. “Really? Are you at something testable? Like even slightly?”

He was rewarded with a curt nod. “Very. But like I said, it’s a trial run. A neat little cocktail, if I do say so myself. If nothing else it should give us an idea of what it isn’t. You’ve got a heck of a mess going on in there, let me tell you.” 

“What?” That was news. At least, it was news if Tony wasn’t simply unsure about what gave him his spider-powers. All sorts of horrible notions erupted in his head – diseases, serums, poisons, wonky magic spells, that time he had been bitten by a vampire – it all paled him just enough that Tony looked actively concerned. 

“Don’t worry about it now, kid, I’m just saying. Once we work out this thing, I think you ought to take some time off and let us get a closer look at what’s happening in the old matrix. You’re healthy, but you’re not normal and we’re not so sure what’s Osborn’s doing and what isn’t. You’ve been exposed to some things since becoming Spider-Man that might have changed you. And this new ‘power’ of yours, it may be a side effect of that. Or, and this is one of the things we’re testing for, it might be a latent aspect of the Osborn formula. Maybe he was hoping to encourage his little batches of super humans to breed.”

“EW!”

“It’s a possibility, not a fact. Calm down. We’re not going to bother questioning him about it either, all right? Not unless the results start swinging that way.” He took a solemn moment to brush his suit straight, as if there was a smattering of crumbs on it from lunch (there wasn’t, and Peter enviously doubted that there ever had been in his life) and held up a hand. “I’ll be back in five. With bagels and the serum, capisce? You’ll stay put, and you don’t let anyone in but me.”

“Yeah, but,” Peter wrinkled his nose, “Tony, we shouldn’t be in the same room. I’m surprised we were even able to have this conversation. Is the Wasp around this time? Janet?”

“Do you really want to take the serum on a leap of faith alone, or would you rather know it’s working off the bat? And better me, who understands what’s going on and is no match for your strength, than some idiot that Nick’s going to push in and potentially fire if he tries something. I’m not expendable, if you catch my drift.”

Peter went aghast. “He’d actually do that?”

“He’s not happy, to put it politely.” And something strange crossed Tony’s face then, not in the same lascivious sense he had been getting used to the past week, but that strained and faintly sad look people gave when they witnessed the bearing of bad news. It passed without comment, but Peter watched him closely now as he spoke. “He’s not here by the way. If that makes you feel better.”

“And he won’t come?”

“No. Official business.”

“And my Aunt?”

He shook out his watch from his sleeve and clicked buttons perfunctorily. “Apparently stuck in traffic, but coming.”

There was nothing for it. Peter crossed his arms and cast a glance out at the brilliant sky. It seemed as much a part of the room as the sofas and the mini bar, with windows that cascaded from roof to floor with scarcely a hint that there was something more than air between them. He nodded, not turning his gaze away, and he heard Tony shut the door behind him. 

He strode over and crouched next to the window at the center to watch the clouds brush the tips of buildings. He could tell you which ones were for what business, what hotel, what purpose. He could envision the rooftops of most and even map out several different routes from here to there to almost anywhere he wanted to get in Manhattan. He knew what their gutters smelled like, which alleys had gang tags and where the town’s fat cats did dirty business while their drivers waited around the corner. He’d gotten scrapes from nicking chimneys and hard landings on cement rooftops, he’d perched on the gargoyles of old stone and mortar relics and shimmied up the sleek windows of the monotone monoliths that housed corporations and firms. 

And for not the first time, he wondered what it would be like to simply let that all go. Never taste New York air from fifty stories up again. If Tony couldn’t cure him, it might come to that.

What was he going to tell Aunt May? MJ? He curled up around his knees and wondered again if he absolutely had to. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Neither one could possibly know, neither would understand. They’d hate him. Or his Aunt would try to lock him away, but MJ would hate him. No question about it. 

All Peter had to do was picture her face, the way her eyes crinkled and glistened when she cried, and his stomach was already off to rolling in dread.

The pallid reflection in the window alerted him to the door swinging open once again. It was only Tony, bearing a paper baggy that promised bagel goodness and a minute metal case which promised salvation. Peter was happy to see both and virtually bounded over. 

“Here, take these,” Tony pawned the bagels off on him and he immediately tore into one. There was a wry grin on the man’s face as he took a station at the nearby table and worked to open the case. “You’re going to get sick if you inhale it like that.”

“Then I’ll get sick,” Peter said between bites. The first bagel was gone, and unlike Tony Stark he did have to wipe his clothes for crumbs. He fished for the second without hesitation. There were five in total with different fillings; either Tony was hungry too or he was just unsure of what Peter might like. “That was the best bagel I’ve had in my life.”

“I’ll send my compliments to the Starbucks downstairs.” The case opened with a hitch and revealed a what could only be called a needle gun, little glass vials loaded into the chamber like poison bullets. Peter was suddenly feeling less confident about this whole thing. “This won’t hurt. It looks like it does but it’s more of a tickler.”

“Okay, cool.” Peter shuddered. Then he frowned, because shuddering as of late had been a terribly bad sign. He put down the bagels on the table. “Uh, can I do it?”

That gave Tony a solid pause. Though he was frowning, clearly uncertain of something but keeping mum on what, he held the gun out, prone on its side. There were several buttons at the base of the handle, like the dial pad of a phone, and they too glowed with green lights. “There’s a ten digit code for it. To prevent accidental injection, or theft. I’ve patented this, the seal can’t be broken without contamination. They’re incompatible with any other injector. You need to put it against your arm before you activate it.”

Peter affirmed with a nod and took it, pressing it high on his left shoulder. The cool metal was a shock to his skin, but after a second it turned to a mercy. It was hotter than you would guess, the sun beaming at them from the obnoxiously high reaching windows. “And what’s the code?”

“Five seven seven…”

“Five…seven…seven…” Each tap suffered from a silence that struck Peter as bizarre. Strange that the buttons wouldn’t make dial pad noises to ensure they had been hit. “Yeah okay.”

“Two, one.”

“Two. One.” Peter’s breath had gone thick. Deep. The air was humid in here, he was certain it hadn’t been so before. There was something niggling and familiar about the numbers too, but he couldn’t place what.

“Five, six six.” A lower cadence than usual had wormed its way into Tony’s voice. He spoke as if humming: a soothing sort of murmur that had Peter’s left foot twisting anxiously on the spot, like he was a small child being punished by a teacher.

He wet his lips a second time and said, “Five,” but stopped. Inexorably, he found himself shyly peeking up at the billionaire, who was now much closer than before and laying a hand over the gun. Peter let him lower it. A heavy lump in his throat make him swallow, an ugly sound that made him just a touch ashamed to have made in such close quarters with Tony Stark. “Hey.”

Tony took the gun from him. And as he reached behind to set it back in the case on the table, he smoothly occupied Peter’s now vacant hand by drawing it to his lips. He gave the knuckles a kiss. Peter’s heart leaped into his throat and he was forced to swallow again. “Hello,” he said, then kissed it a second time. Peter only stared.

He must have done this a million times. Peter scarcely noticed when the gentle grip on his hand had turned to a tug, sliding him into Tony’s body with a ghostly glide. He was secured there at the small of his back, and with nothing more than a finger tapping under his chin Peter was made to crane his neck and survey the older man close up. The blue of his eyes hooked him all over again. Maybe it was how dark his brows and hair were. Jet black and glacier blue, not a combination you could find by tossing a nickel into any old crowd. As a result Tony seemed exceedingly handsome, maybe even deceptively so. It was something Peter had noticed before. That one guy could have so much going for him when everyone else had so little was maddening. 

Tony gifted him with a hint of a smile, and dipped in to pair it with a kiss. Logan and Castle had stubble and Strange had a goatee too, but Tony’s was softer than all of theirs. Not even because it was longest (Strange won that contest) and therefore less prickly. He was willing to bet Tony had some kind of ivory dusted shampoos and ointments that he used daily on the thing. The perks of the super rich. 

He was also, Peter realized, an incredibly good kisser. Practice makes perfect. It was all very tender, methodical. He didn’t try to rush in all tongue and teeth and greed, he let things escalate. A ginger peck to start, then one that lasted a touch longer, then open mouthed, putting his hand on Peter’s cheek for better effect, lingering at the lips, then a little deeper. If Logan had been the hot and heavy kind then here was the suave seducer. The sort you put in movies that made girls giggle and swoon and the guys shift uncomfortably in their seats, masking envy with mockery. When he drew away Peter tried to follow, eyes still closed and straining on his tip toes.

Tony chuckled and kissed his cheek, then whispered in his ear. “Take off your shirt.” Then he was gone, and Peter opened his eyes to see him several paces away, settling on a plush white couch and shedding his suit jacket. He raised his eyes at Peter in wordless expectation.

He trotted forward, just a shade over eager and was halted instantly by a cool hand motioning stop. “What did I tell you?”

Thought was a difficult thing. He understood but it took a second for the order to sink in, rather than just wobbling over hypnotized by the man in front of him. Which he was in danger of doing, but Peter could manage this. Absolutely. With no small amount of torture Peter lifted the hem of his shirt up and valiantly refrained from whining at Tony to do it for him, to just grab him and go at it right now now now. He kept his eyes on the billionaire as it swept over his head, fluffing his hair and giving it the static needed to stick to his face. A thread of embarrassment trickled into being and he nervously brushed it away. Tony was scarcely moving save for his fingers, which worked at unclipping his cufflinks and the radio watch, and his eyes, which had traveled south of Peter’s face and roamed with meticulous precision. The familiar heat seemed to burn a little brighter, no mirror was needed to tell Peter he had gone so much redder for it. 

“Shoes.” With minimal fussing (but still enough to highlight his discomfort) Peter slipped them off, taking his socks with them. “Pants.” Those were discarded with timid fingers, desperate fingers, making him fumble at the button before he had succeeded in shucking them as well. His knees appeared misshapen suddenly, they were much more knobbly than he remembered. Was that burn scar on his calf too gross? He could heal up so much better than a regular person could, but there were still marks. You could not get out of this kind of life unscathed. But Tony only smiled, touching his lips as he cocked his head. Peter pursed his own, and removed the boxers last of all.

Naked, he stood before one of the richest men in the world, his fallen clothes rumpled on a carpet he would have to mortgage his house to afford. But Tony was drinking him in. Peter hadn’t had anything fancier than a can or two of Pabst Blue Ribbon and whatever Castle had given him, or a sample of wine at dinner. He had seen people sip at fancier things, juices and spirits mixed into sweet poison, and there was a specific relish everyone took in it that he could see in the older man’s face now. Peter wasn’t certain if he should run away. It screamed danger, being on display like this. Then Tony licked his lips, a little pink dart that brushed the edge of that dark moustache, and Peter’s cock jumped at the sight.

Finally, mercy. “Get over here.”

There was at least a quarter pint of dignity left in him, so that he didn’t just leap over and rip Tony’s pants open. He walked. He was herded onto Tony’s lap, the silky trousers feeling all too sinful on his bare thighs. The feeling doubled when Tony started smoothing the skin there from knee to hip with open palms.

“I don’t think you know how cute you are,” he said softly. That set Peter’s heart to record paces in half a second, from stuttering in fear to racing with anticipation. 

He lifted a thumb to Peter’s lips, stroking the bottom half with deliberate sluggishness before entering wholly. Peter enveloped it, his lips around the base and his tongue swirling over the knuckle. “Mmph.” Tony was pushing it in and out. He didn’t stop Peter when he took his wrist in hand and began bobbing his head over the thumb. In fact, he was laughing at him.

“Oh Lord, you’re an eager beaver.” The thumb was zipped out to Peter’s great disappointment, but he gave a small gasp as Tony traced it down the centre of his chest and belly. The slick trail halted just before the little patch of hair at his groin. He reached around and squeezed his ass, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You should touch yourself for me. I’d really like that.”

Peter’s brows drew together and he took on a frown. He reached for the buttons of Tony’s shirt like a petulant child. “But you’re still…”

Tony stopped him immediately. “Shht,” he said, a hand on each wrist and guiding his right downwards, curling the fingers around his rising shaft. “You might be cute, but you won’t get away with being a brat.” He peppered him with tiny kisses, much more like demands, pulling back after sets of two or three to check if Peter was obeying yet. 

It wasn’t fair, that he should be stark naked (what a time for puns) and Tony got to stay looking business ready and impeccable from head to toe. But Peter hoped that maybe he would keep kissing him, for longer durations and with a bit more tongue, if he played along. So he touched himself, he rubbed his cock up and down with a well practiced form and rhythm. Contrary to his hopes Tony stopped kissing him entirely, preferring to lean into the back of the couch and watch the action at his groin with lazy focus. His hands wandered. He petted Peter’s hair. He drew his hands down his chest and rubbed his thumbs across his nipples, which made Peter squirm and pause for a second because while they weren’t particularly sensitive the idea was perverse. Somehow moreso than jacking off in an older man’s lap. The attention made him want to die and orgasm at the same time, equal combinations of mortified and incredibly turned on. 

Tony, of course, took this as a hint to give his nipples extra attention. He did lean forward then, giving one a lick as he tweaked the other. Writhing under the ministrations, Peter was forced to re-examine his assessment. They were much more sensitive than he had thought. Maybe he hadn’t noticed much before because no one had ever gone and worshipped them like this. And that was what it was, because by now Tony was suckling on them as if determined to change the colour from pink to bruise purple, rubbing into muscle below with the intuitive know how of a massuesse. He pumped himself harder. He couldn’t help wriggling, nearly falling off Tony if it hadn’t been for a sudden reach around and squeeze to his butt. Peter steadied himself on the older man’s shoulder, gripping there for a moment before twisting his hand in the back of his shirt instead.

He was shuddering. Panting like an animal. Tony scooted him closer and Peter’s knees were crunched into the crevice between the back of the sofa and the seat, and the buttons of the man’s shirt grazed his bare chest as Tony swirled his tongue around the shell of his ear. Peter laughed, reflexive to the tickle, but managed to deliver a sharp warning. “No! No, stop, I’ve gotta stop, I don’t wanna…”

He tore his hand away from his member and braced himself, counting from one to whatever it took to get that pulsating threat of orgasm away. 

“I don’t care,” Tony remarked huskily. Hungrily. He reached down to grab Peter’s cock himself and ignored the squawk of indignity. “Come all over me. I don’t need this shirt.”

Peter’s teeth clenched and he retaliated: not by batting Tony’s hand away, but by tearing through the button and zipper of the finely tailored pants and slipping his hand under the waistband of silky boxers. Tony guffawed as Peter grasped him. Bigger than his, no question, both in girth and in length, but the only pertinent difference was the angle he had to work at to stroke it properly. “Oh, you frisky little _shit_.”

Quite suddenly he was on his back. Tony had pushed him over and pinned him down. He was positively ravaging him now. Where there had only been shallow teasing pecks before came deep, invasive probes of tongue and lips that pushed Peter to near asphyxiation. Peter groped the older man with heavy greed, pulling the shirt loose of the belt and sticking his hands up inside to stroke his abs and the smooth but muscled curve of his back. Tony’s hands were set loose too and they covered their ground, tracing his ribs and the ridge of his hip and the delicate underside of his knees with equal curiousity for each and every part. At one point he even pushed at the back of his thigh and pulled himself slightly upright to watch it go. Up, up, over, descending to Peter’s chest and then the knee nestled flat on his shoulder. The shock put a smugness in Peter’s breathless grin, and he stretched it out flat. His whole left leg now pointed like a minute hand at the noon mark, ruler straight and without the tremors of tension. Tony gaped at him with no small degree of awe.

“Well look at you,” he said, giving a low whistle. 

Only then, seated back upright and still transfixed by the unnatural demonstration of flexibility, did Tony start into the buttons of his shirt. He flung the thing off without a care and Peter gave a sharp snicker. Victory.

Logan would forever and for always win the body hair contest. Tony had some, but it was like a faint dusting in comparison to the mutant. It looked natural but too neatly kept to be untouched by scissors, in a triangle that tapered off into the little trail that traversed through the navel and down into the waist of his pants. He was well built, too, for a man who spent his time behind desks and in laboratories. Peter supposed a certain fitness level was required to operate inside the Iron Man armor. Jealousy sparked in him all over again, even if it was only a minor twinge under the thick slathering of lust. Tony was an impossibly, horribly lucky man. 

He started on his pants, pulling them below his hips and letting his cock spring free before descending on Peter again. He thrusted against Peter’s groin, inciting a moan that probably belonged in a professional porno flick. Peter let his raised legs swing around. With some squirming he managed to attach his feet to Tony’s pants, using his spider powers to adhere to the fabric and clumsily push them down all the way. Tony complied, lifting each foot as Peter kicked the clothing up and over his ankles, but he never stopped thrusting against Peter. His cock was leaking a little, painting a sticky line on his lower half that dipped into his navel. Tony reached between them and smeared it all around Peter’s belly. As Peter shivered and bucked against him, rolling his dick against the older man’s stomach, he leaned over the edge, fetching his discarded suit jacket. With stoic haste he fished something from a concealed pocket on the inside, unscrewed a lid and swiped his fingers inside. 

It occurred to Peter that it was probably lube, and while it was disturbing to think that Tony carried it around at all times he was a little more concerned with the idea that he had now had anal sex with two different people and never had anything but spit to save him.

When Tony returned to hovering over him properly his fingers were glistening with a viscous, oily liquid. With a filthy smirk, he leaned over Peter again and held one leg wide by the ankle. A soft kiss, no matter how nice, did not mask the finger slipping in and around his hole, coating it meticulously with the warm goop. Peter wriggled and made small sounds of protest that were trapped by Tony’s mouth, turning them even smaller and weaker still. Either he was starting to get looser or the liquid made it too easy, but Tony had slipped two fingers in with scarcely a hiccup. 

This did not negate the discomfort entirely. Though there was the added sensation of squishiness, and Peter wasn’t sure what he thought of that yet. 

Tony was lapping at the hollow of his neck when he thrust the third finger in. And now it was less stretching, less plying and gentility and more like the fingers were acting as a surrogate for what was about to happen. He was thrusting them in with force, plundering, making Peter squeak in shock to start before it started to feel oddly nice. Really nice, smooth in and out and short pushes to focus on power. Peter coiled his free leg around the older man’s and settled for squeezing his rear. He pushed Tony into him from there and revelled in how stiff the thing felt sliding up against his belly. It had to hurt by now to not be using it. Tony was hard, Peter was sensationally hard, and the fingers pushing into him only made him needy and over eager. He groped at the body above him with a nearly real blindness.

The fingers were simply gone one moment. Peter actually looked down in confusion before the hand on his arm begged him upwards. He obeyed, panting, and watched with insatiable hunger as Tony laid himself down, wiping his sticky fingers on the seat cushion without a care and shifting a pillow beneath his head. Peter crawled over top of him, a trace of Spider-Man in the movements when it turned predatory. Tony was underneath him now and he laid down kisses on the man just like the ones he had received. He also got a bit daring. His rear was lined up near perfectly, the tip of Tony’s stiff cock poking the base of one cheek, so it was purely intuitive to rub it down a few times. Let it slide up in the shallow crevice as he lowered himself and slip free when he rose. 

Tony moaned low and monstrous. “Oof. You’re not half as clueless as you pretend, honey pot.” Yet when he let his hand come down on Peter’s rear with a resounding smack, Peter still yelped.

“Did you just spank me?” He looked over his shoulder and was swatted again for the transgression. “Ow!”

“That’s what happens to bad little boys.” Tony squeezed his rear with both hands then, one on each cheek, and gave one last light whack for good measure. Peter’s dick was throbbing and his face burned livid red. The sting wasn’t altogether unwelcome. “If you want to be good…”

The message was clear. He held him by the hips now, raising and realigning him. Peter drew away and braced himself with one hand soldered to the back of the sofa. His nerves had returned, not by droves but just enough to give him a sliver of hesitation. Logan and Castle had taken him from behind. He would have to look at Tony’s face if they did it this way.

Tony had let go of one hip, gripping himself and prodding Peter’s rear with it for entrance. Peter took a much needed deep breath and spread one cheek just enough to the side, simply letting himself drop, margin by margin, onto the cock below. Moaning at the intrusion Peter turned his attention to himself again, grabbing his own member in hand as he sank to stroke away the pain of entry.

Tony helped him. When it was no longer necessary to hold himself in place he began to invade Peter’s private ministrations, resting his hand over top before pushing Peter’s fingers off, one by one, until he had usurped him entirely and was stroking him with a slow, lavish touch. And here Peter was under the impression that he could not get any redder in the face. 

Now he was required to put his focus on his rear, and how far in Tony had gotten before they stopped to take care of his own erection. About halfway from his estimates, and Peter was in some pain but he was already feeling that greedy little niggling that demanded more, keep moving, split himself in two if he had to. Thighs gone tight and his toes curled to straining, Peter had to repeat soothing mantras to himself to loosen everything and push down past his comfort. Put his focus on the seductive pull on his member. Tony was nothing but extra attentive, tender even. Very considerate of him considering how Peter was now hovering just above the base of his cock. Just shy of touching down and feeling the balls against his rear, but that was the limit. Peter couldn’t take in any more. 

The pressure was so much different from this angle. It pushed more insistently at the front even though it was firmly tucked inside him, which meant Peter could already feel it brushing against that tiny sweet spot that it had taken the other two some time to hit. 

“You all right?” Tony asked in hushed tones, letting his hand stray from its station at his hip to rub his arm. Somehow that embarrassed him more, making such a big deal about it and moving at a snail’s pace. Was that normal or was that just him being a wuss? He nodded hastily to make up for it.

“Yeah, yeah, just one sec,” he assured as he adjusted his legs, just a small scoot to make staying upright and mobile that much easier. Then, afraid it was too early but so eager to please, he started to move. Very small, tight lifts and falls, and though it hurt he saw Tony biting his lip as his eyes closed in ecstacy, so Peter drove faster. It was easier than he thought, and the insistent push against that spot inside him was addictive. Soon he was positively bouncing in the older man’s lap. Up and down, up and down, full as can be and even hitting the base of his groin when he thought before it would not be possible at all. Tony groaned and tugged at Peter’s cock, having momentarily forgotten to as his own was being swallowed whole.

“That’s it, baby. Look at you go.”

And Tony was looking now, dark eyed and sin in his grin. In spite of his misgivings Peter was finding that it struck less on his nerves and more on his need to impress. Obviously he was doing something right. He threw him a smile right back and bounced higher with a quicker return, daring overtaking the pain of a premature stretch and revelling in that succulent swell of cock inside him. 

Tony let him have the lead for a while, stroking him and touching his belly with reverence and his waist with lusty need. It didn’t last. He stopped Peter mid-air with an abrupt grip on his rear, raised his own knees, and then held Peter still as he thrusted upwards into him. The first slam had Peter yelping in shock. He had to let his upper body tumble forward and hold his weight with both hands, one still on the back of the couch and the other making a deep indent in the cushion next to Tony’s ribs. He couldn’t shut up. Wordless moans, gasps and yelps were drilled out of him as Tony took no mercy on his behind. Tony’s tight grip on his hips did nothing to stop his body from jerking upward with every thrust, his hair flopping in and sticking to the thin sweat on his brow, threatening to poke out his eyes. Peter just closed them shut and let himself ride. His entire body was pulsating, his toes wriggled and he stabbed the cushions with how tightly his fingers dug in. 

What he delayed before was now unstoppable. Peter tensed, just a half of a second of stillness before he came messily over Tony’s belly. Electricity shot through him and he nearly collapsed. He dropped his head onto Tony’s collarbone and just barely kept the rest of himself aloft, elbows bent deep as the ripples of euphoria swept through his every inch and nerve. Tony slowed, but never stopped moving. He petted his hair and whispered to him kindly. “That’s it. Let it go kiddo.”

Peter looked up, drained and hair obscuring his eyes, and kissed him then. He had to push forward a little and lift off of Tony’s cock for a moment (though Tony immediately followed and thrust higher to regain his ground) but it was worth it. Soft and sweet and letting Tony dip his tongue inside.

He was aware of Tony reaching between them, the back of his hand brushing his chest before he brought it out for Peter to see. He had his come on his fingers, pearly sheen and sticky even as it rolled down the index in a thick bead. Peter was fixated on them as Tony lapped them clean, never once breaking eye contact. Showing off, though Peter was mystified as to why.

Maybe Tony was just an all around smug bastard.

“You taste good.”

Peter bit his lip and flushed all over again. “Oh?”

“You want a taste?” He didn’t bother waiting for a yes or a no, already swiping a new batch from his stomach and presenting it to Peter, an inch or two from his lips. 

He might have said no had he been given the chance but now that he was being offered it he found he couldn’t refuse. Tentative, his eyes locked with Tony’s, he edged forward and gave the fingers a lick. Salty. Weirdly salty, but not so bad. Tony pushed his fingers in his mouth and Peter complied by sucking at them with the same enthusiasm he gave for popsicles. “Mm.” 

Tony was laughing at him all over again. If it hadn’t been followed with a kiss to his brow he might have been offended. “You’re so damn cute, it’s almost sickening. How do you like it?”

Peter popped free of the fingers and gave an instant, “Good.” Tony chuckled some more and kissed him on the mouth.

“That’s what I want to hear. Now you mind if I finish?” He gave a buck and Peter hissed, but Tony didn’t continue further. Rather he was rolling them over, pulling Peter’s legs in and forcing him back into the couch, wriggling him down until he was flat on his back and his legs were up by his ears. Pinned in place. Tony laid neatly over top of him. They reattached, his cock buried deep into Peter. All he had to do was roll his hips a little, rock them back and forth. It was the same kind of gentility that he had gotten from Frank Castle. Peter groaned deeply and reached around to squeeze at Tony’s ass. He pushed him in deeper from there and almost sobbed at how good it felt. He had already come but he still wanted it so badly.

“Why are you so stupidly – nngh – stupidly perfect?” Peter gasped as he kept rolling in, drowning him with his weight and the thickness of his cock, how smooth real lube made the push and pull of sex. 

“What’s that?” Tony said from above.

“Why are you—“ He was cut off with a particularly deep shove.

Shit eating grin might have been a terrible cliché, but it was a picture perfect case for the billionaire hovering over top of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Tony, come on!” 

“Tell me how you feel.” 

Peter squirmed, his head dropping to the side as his body throbbed in pleasure. “You feel so good…”

“Really?” He got kissed on his neck then and Peter squeezed him harder at the rear.

“You’re so good, you’re the best, just keep going –“

“The best?”

“ _Yes…_ ” He hissed. His eyes rolled back as Tony dragged out torturously only to push back in even slower.

“So you like this?” The next instant he pounded soundly into him, holding himself all the way in. Truly the devil in disguise.

“YES!” Peter wailed.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes!” Peter let his hands scrape at Tony’s shoulder’s now, desperate as the pace switched back into marathon speeds. “Oh my god Tony, _please!_ ”

“How do you want it?”

Tony had lifted off of him and yanked his legs up high and to each side, pumping into the centre of a wide V. Peter thanked God for his flexibility then or that might have been painful. “Harder!”

“Say it!”

“Harder, harder, more! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Peter was writhing underneath him, his back arching and his hands scrambling for purchase on the sofa. “Oh my fucking god…”

That seemed to do it. Tony slammed into him a few more times, ruthless, then suddenly pushed himself down and pulled at Peter’s hair. He attacked his lips insatiably as he spilled out deep inside him. Tony thrusted lightly as he continued to come. His breath was hot and desperate between kisses, a long moan finishing off the affair. He let himself pump in and out for a short while more before withdrawing. Peter was half hard again, and they kept kissing one another with a terrible longing.

Then, like clockwork, Peter’s sanity trickled back in. Tony was oblivious as he went stiff underneath him, as he kissed back with less and less enthusiasm and his hands went from loving gropes to pushing at his shoulders. The sense of something horribly wrong came long before cohesive thought. All Peter knew was that he had to get out from under him, it was suddenly much too hot, much too heavy, much too real and uncomfortable and he did not want the man to keep touching him so lasciviously. He managed to scoot out, half hanging out off the couch, when Tony was finally taking the hint.

“Oh, come on,” he said plaintively, but Peter was not to be deterred. He used his strength to push Tony back into the couch cushions and roll out entirely, hitting the floor with a smack. Tony was reaching for his arm. “Christ, you okay?”

Peter didn’t respond. He saw the table, some distance away, and with sudden clarity remembered the needle gun left on top of it. And the numbers, he knew them. He could remember them, surely he could.

It was the elevator at the Bugle all over again. The moment Peter was on his feet and trying to limp away Tony was right there with him, wrapping his arms around his waist and nibbling at his ear. Another spike of heat washed through his skin but Peter doubled his efforts, squirming to duck out from the grip. Tony stopped putting up resistance for a brief moment and he took his chance, darting over. But when he grabbed the gun he felt a hand at his back pushing him down, bending him over the table just like Logan had done on the first night, and Peter knew he had to act fast. 

He pushed back upright, which seemed fine by Tony as he simply circled his arms around his waist and kept kissing his neck, his jaw, pressing close against his back. Peter whimpered, even that small sound posed a struggle as he warred between remembering the code and turning around to let Tony fuck him into oblivion a second time. With shaking hands he put the gun on his arm and tried to wrest his face away from Tony’s prying kisses, which had strayed up to his cheek. 

The numbers, the numbers. He punched them in as they came to him. Five seven seven, two one five.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, with a lucidity that shocked even him. Euler’s constant: 0.5772156649, ten places after the decimal. That was why they were familiar.

He tapped them out rapid fire, and keened when the needle punched through and drained itself into him. The sound caught Tony’s attention. He tried to turn Peter around to check on him but Peter refused, curling around his arm and the gun held to it as if protecting a small child.

“Hey, what’s…” Tony’s question drifted off as Peter closed his eyes. A new ripple over took the heat, cool like the gel Tony had used on him and just as repulsive. 

He felt sick. And debased. The former was the result of the drug, he was sure, as he was bent over and sweating with slight nausea now, but the latter was all on him. Tony was drawing away. He felt no heat now. No need for touch. It had been zapped clean out of him, and Peter found that he didn’t want to get up anymore. He didn’t want to see Tony’s face.

He heard the light padding of feet as the man took a few steps back. They were both mute. Peter less so perhaps, because the shivers had taken him over and his breath hissed through his gritted teeth as he squashed down the sobbing.

Of course he had to go and get fucked by Tony Stark. One of a very few people he could openly admit that he looked up to without having that image marred by getting told he was stupid to his face, by watching him compromise the same morals Peter thought he upheld. He had lost respect for plenty of personal heroes as he had gotten to know them as people first and icons second, but Tony seemed immune to everything.

Now he would always remember Peter naked and squealing like a bitch on his couch.

With delicate care Peter slipped the needle free. He slapped the gun on the table and tore away, beelining for his clothes and furiously replacing them. A tear did squeak out as he felt Tony’s cum leaking down his leg. His stomach clenched and rolled. Humiliation like he had never known had his hands trembling, turning his guts into leaden weights and his extremities numb. He furiously wiped off the trail with his hand and rubbed all traces of it into obscurity on his boxers, which he yanked on thereafter. His pants came next. Tony was silent, but Peter could see him standing perfectly petrified out of the corner of his eye. With great trepidation, he began to mirror him, treading wordlessly to his own clothes and gingerly slipping them on.

Tony had only managed to get his pants on and shrug into his still open shirt when Peter made to leave. 

“Wait, Peter!” 

He denied him any chances. Peter slammed the door on his way out and slinked into the elevator. It was empty. Mercifully empty. 

He hit the main floor button and crouched low, adopting a corner to sit in and hugging at his knees. He sat in silence the whole way down, and to his good fortune was never once made to stop and pick up another passenger. It must have been a slow day at Stark Industries.


	6. An Uneasy Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping secrets has become too difficult, ever for a seasoned veteran like Peter Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter!

When he reached the bottom floor, there was a suavely dressed woman waiting for him who informed him that his Aunt had been shown to another room on the second floor. Peter considered that it might be a ploy by Tony to keep him in the building, but when he followed her and found himself in another much smaller lounge, his Aunt was pacing back and forth, spinning on her heel with the maniacal twist of a race car tire, swerving to nail the curve. She squared him off a sharp look when he came in. 

“You –“ She turned that pointed glare to the woman, who gracefully bowed out and shut the door behind her. Peter accepted the chokehold hug he was subjected to thereafter, and did not protest when she grasped him by the shoulders, gave him a shake and launched into the tirade he had been dreading all day. “Where on _Earth_ have you been? What happened to you? Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

She patted his head, checking for fever, and then bodily spun him around for sign of injury. There was nothing for it but to bear the brunt of motherly fury. “I’m fine, Aunt May. I got lost in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Her eyes flared wide. “Excuse me?”

He was forced to explain, in the most delicate of terms, that he had been chasing after a friend in danger (he still hadn’t told her everything about the clones and so editing out Jessica was a bit of a snag) and lost her, and that he had run out of web fluid and was without pocket change. From there it took a great deal of fibbing, pretending that he had found a rooftop to snuggle up on and that Tony Stark had found him walking innocuously down the street the next morning. None of it appeased her. 

“You could have been dead and I wouldn’t have known.”

“I wasn’t. I tried to get some change for a phone call but no one would give me any.”

Livid, she kneaded the air next to her temples as she spoke. If she ever had been tempted to give him a swat, it was now.“Peter, you do not understand. I was losing my mind. Losing my goddamn mind, and there wasn’t anything on the news about Spider-Man, no one I called would tell me a thing! I was going insane worrying about you, and you expect this to be okay just because this time, you didn’t get hurt?”

His eyes were trained on the carpet. “Aunt May, I’m really sorry.”

“What is this?” She picked at his collar. Peter’s pulse sped. He shrugged away and mumbled that it was nothing. Naturally she did not believe him. “Peter, what is that mark on your neck?”

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” he waved his hands in protest. “It’s from MJ.”

She glared darkly. “If it was from MJ, you would have said so in the first place.”

There was no escaping her. Peter fidgeted with the bottom of his shirt. “I can’t…”

“Can’t what? You spit it out right now Mister.”

The doorknob clicked. Peter nearly jumped out of his skin, and went pale when he saw Tony Stark in the doorway. His suit was immaculate again, his hair combed. No fuss, no muss, no sign of anything amiss unless you squinted closely to see the pale rosy tint to his cheeks. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Parker.”

She pursed her lips, affronted, but waved away the retort she was clearly planning in her head. “No, it’s all right. I have to thank you for bringing my nephew here, safe and sound. We owe you so much already.”

“Please, think nothing of it.” He entered fully and Peter felt his heart sink as the door clicked shut behind him. His Aunt turned to frown at him again, but a new furrow took over her brow as she looked him over.

“Peter?” she prodded, putting her hand on his back. His mouth was dry as paper and his head was pounding, and he lost the words to defend himself. “Are you all right?”

“He’s sick, Mrs. Parker.”

“Yes,” Peter said hastily, even if he hated himself for it. Aunt May cast a quizzical glance to their host.

“I know that, he’s been running a fever for the past few days, but – oh, what’s this?” Tony was handing her a metallic case. A larger model than the one he had brought upstairs for Peter. Terror overtook him again and he sent a searching look at Tony, praying he wouldn’t spill any depraved details about what it was for. He ought to have brought it down himself, Peter thought miserably. Tony gave the slightest nod to him, and continued.

“It’s an antidote. This illness has something to do with his being Spider-Man. Whether it’s his altered DNA causing it or some external force remains to be seen, but it’s not a case of the sniffles. You need to take this—“ he addressed Peter now, betraying not a whit of what had happened between them mere minutes before, “—twice a day, morning and night, for at least a month. I’ve given you two week’s supply here. You’ll need to come back for testing once a week and refills when you run out.”

Peter shook his head vehemently. “No, I can’t.”

“You have to. We haven’t figured out for certain what it is yet, Peter.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

“It might stop working. It could be a placebo effect, it could need a stronger dosage. There might be negative side effects. There’s a lot of factors we have to consider here, and we’ll need to run more tests to make sure we’ve nixed it for good.”

Aunt May looked back and forth between them, eyeing the unspoken line of tension with mounting suspicion. Peter caught her eye but was unsure of how to shake her off without having to agree. “No, I can’t, it’s too suspicious. People are going to notice me coming in and out of here all the time. Can’t you FedEx it?”

“Peter, what exactly is going on here?”

He had no answer for that. Peter stared at her helplessly. Tony winced, giving a small grunt of dissatisfaction, and proposed the unthinkable. “Might I have a word alone with Peter?”

“No,” he instantly countered, but his Aunt was interjecting.

“What for?”

“I just need to assure him of something. I promise you, it won’t take more than a moment,” Tony said hurriedly, a hand on Peter’s back (was he insane?) as he herded him through another door and left his baffled Aunt behind. 

Tony guided him into a kitchenette of all things, though a finely fashioned one. He shut the door for privacy and let Peter go, looking him gravely in the eye. Peter’s heart thudded and he cast his gaze anywhere else he could find. The microwave would do.

“What?” he asked peevishly.

“Listen,” Tony said hurriedly. “Peter, I cannot stress enough how sorry – truly and honestly sorry –“

Peter was cringing, loathing pushing up gooseflesh all over him. He couldn’t even look at Tony without remembering his naked body, or feeling the phantom tongue in his mouth or kisses on his belly, the cock sliding against his navel. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

“Peter, I just want you to know—“

“ _I know_ ,” Peter seethed, “But it happened and there’s nothing we can do about it so just drop it and let me leave. Let me out of here. I don’t want to be here.”

Tony was silent, calculating. There were lines in his face that had never been there before, worry creases that aged him, took a little of that shine off his James Bond cool. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Though the chief tone spoke of regret, there was an undercurrent to Tony’s reassurance. Something prying about the statement, a question even. He dared to look Tony in the eye then and was infuriated to see the shame written there in bold letters. “You think I’m going to?”

“No. I don’t think you want to, but the issue is—“

“Oh, is this a question of reputation?” Peter’s grimace turned to a hard edged grin, bitter and disbelieving. “You think I’m going to go cry about this to somebody and you’re going to get creamed by Fury, right?”

He was cool in his recovery. Whether it was from speaking sincerely or years as a very shrewd business man remained to be seen. “That is not what I mean, Parker. Believe it or not your safety is my biggest concern here. The point I’m making is that I’m the one working on the cure. I am going to need to be in the same room as you again sometime to do that.”

“You just fricking gave me a cure.”

“And I’m not certain it’s going to work.”

“Well, Lordy, if only there was a way to find out!” Peter flung his arms wide and gawked around the kitchenette, playing baffled. “I mean golly gee, it’s not like it just stopped you in your tracks up there. Heaven’s no.”

“Peter, I just don’t think you should assume anything until we’re absolutely –“

Finished with Tony’s smooth talking and conditions, his apologies, Peter shot forward. Tony tried, but couldn’t dodge being backed against the wall, Peter’s hands on his cheeks as he narrowed the distance between them to a thin half inch. Tony’s eyes were wide and his face frosted white under Peter’s fingers in terror. 

“You feel like kissing me yet?” Peter dared. Silence answered him. For the first time ever, Tony Stark had not one silver coated word at hand to smooth the situation. He let go and backed off with a scowl. “Then we’re done here.”

He made for the door, though he took one last stop to hold a threatening finger in the air. “And if – _if_ this thing doesn’t work after all, then get a woman to hold my hand through testing. I don’t care who. I am not doing this again, with you or anyone else. Period.”

Aunt May watched him sharply as he slinked out into the lounge again, grabbing her by the sleeve and telling her plainly, “We’re leaving now.” She turned that stare to Tony Stark then, standing defeated in the doorway of the kitchenette, before Peter tugged her out and permitted not so much as a wave goodbye from either party.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As Manhattan flashed by their windows and they bid it farewell, hitting the bridge in the dregs of afternoon traffic, neither Peter nor Aunt May had said a word to each other. Taut lines riddled his Aunt’s face with the effort to hold in her every remark, and Peter clutched the metal briefcase tight to his middle and watched the cityscape with lifeless eyes. The radio was on, an old rockabilly song strumming and failing to liven up the terse atmosphere in the car.

“ _You passed me by one sunny day_  
 _Flashed those big brown eyes my way_  
 _And oooh I wanted you forever more…”_

When they hit the limits of Queens, the spell broke.

“This Stark man,” Aunt May said slowly, “Did he do something to you?”

Made him strip bare while he watched. Made him jerk off in his lap, kissed him, touched him, fucked him. And the joke of it all was that it was Peter’s fault. “No,” he said wearily.

“ _I said "Hello Mary Lou_  
 _Goodbye heart_  
 _Sweet Mary Lou_  
 _I'm so in love with you…_ ”

The radio reigned again, but it was a short revival. Aunt May shut off the music and subjected the street to her grim stare. “And this illness he’s talking about, what is that?” 

“It’s…” he stared at the case, his heart thudding in his ears. No excuses came to him. He could have passed it off as fevers, chills, even a loss of one of his powers, but none of those seemed like such bright ideas. Peter drifted off entirely, enraptured by the metal case and the serums he knew lay within.

“Peter.”

He covered his eyes, and answered with the only words he could find. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

His Aunt inhaled thinly. She was treading the border between a ferocious rage and motherly worry, he could hear it in that sliver of a breath and it made his stomach turn. “Peter, I understand there are some things you don’t want to share with me about being Spider-Man. I’ve tried to respect that, you know I have. But I know that there has been something wrong this last week. Something very wrong, and I can see it in your eyes every time I look at you.” He coiled up tighter and kept his gaze lowered. “And it’s not like the rest. I remember how you were when Ben went, and Gwen. I know you a lot better than you think I do.”

“I never said –“ Peter started.

“No, but you think it. And now that I know you’re Spider-Man a lot of things have made so much more sense about you, but this is scaring me Peter.” He could see her turning her head from the corner of his eye, short glances over that she could afford while navigating their way home. “Peter, you won’t even look at me.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Peter confessed, meek as a mouse. “Can we please just leave it, Aunt May? I really don’t want to.”

She was taking none of it. “You disappeared on me. For nearly twenty four hours you were nowhere to be found, and when I come to get you at this man’s business, you’re shuffling around, pale as a ghost and you have a hickey on your neck. Yes, I know what it is, Peter, don’t give me no lies. And then you’re suddenly back-talking Tony Stark? The Tony Stark, a man who you’ve been collecting news clippings on for years. And you were crying the other day, saying that you’ve done something bad, and now we’re saddled with whatever this is—“ She flung a hand in the direction of the case, “—and I’m supposed to believe that nothing is wrong besides a case of the super flu? Peter, I might not be waltzing around New York in a cat suit like you and your friends, but I was not born yesterday.”

The case was jamming into his stomach, promising a red imprint of its edges and the folds of fabric trapped underneath it. Peter pushed it in further. It might not do much to numb his dread but it was something to cling to. His Aunt shot him another livid, prying glare that hit him like a bullet between the eyes.

“ _Peter._ ”

His head drooped and his hair turned to curtains, shielding his eyes from the woman beside him. “It’s a new thing. I don’t know why, but lately I just…I think it’s some latent power that kicked in now. Or something. Maybe I am sick. But it’s this kind of hypnosis, it makes guys…”

Aunt May was deadly quiet. Attentive even as she had to weave into a new lane and flip on the wipers when punitive raindrops began to dot the window shield. “Makes them what?”

“They wanna—“ He lifted a hand, grasping at air as if his thoughts had escaped and he had to catch them before they fluttered away entirely. “I don’t know how to stop it. It’s like a weird dream and I can’t think when it’s happening, and they don’t know what they’re doing, I swear, it’s not their fault.”

“Oh.” His Aunt was pressing a hand to her mouth, her complexion ashen. The rise of her chest as she breathed looked torturous.

“You have to believe me, it’s not their –“

“I knew. When you looked at him like that, I just knew, I knew it.” She bit her knuckle and shuddered. Peter watched, no longer hidden beneath his hair or turning away, as she began to cry. “I shouldn’t have let him take you into that room alone.”

“He didn’t do anything,” Peter insisted, his voice cracking under the weight of the lie. “Please, no, don’t say that. Don’t say sorry. He didn’t. He made me this, he is trying to help me.” He pushed the case upright for a moment as if his Aunt had forgotten it was there. 

“Is this what happened last night? You were gone? With some…some man?”

He couldn’t lie now. Peter’s lip trembled. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Aunt May.”

“Oh, no.” Aunt May was sobbing. She still held the wheel fast with white knuckles, but the rest of her was threatening to fall to pieces. Peter felt numb. He suddenly yearned for a shower, remembering the hands that had been on him and spit from kisses, spilled semen. He was revolting. He joined her silently, a pair of tears dripping down cheeks that had been bone dry mere seconds ago. He reached for her hand where it was set on the wheel, rubbing his thumb over its side. She clutched it back, driving one handed as she squeezed him tight and unceasingly with the other, as if she feared letting go would make Peter fly out of the car entirely.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grounded. Not out of spite or punishment, but necessity. Peter preemptively suggested it himself. Aunt May called the school to inform them that he was too ill to attend. His grades likely would plummet from the absences. Ordinarily Peter might worry that he would get held back a year no matter how hard he studied, but none of that mattered now. He showered the moment they got home and was struggling against recursive waves of nausea. Likely the medicine at work, he reasoned, and so only took one slice when they ordered pizza and ate together, huddled against one another on the couch. She talked to him about testing for infections, about how he didn’t have to do anything, she could stay at home with him the next day if he wanted. He nodded vacantly to it all. She tried to press him for names and he would give her none, arguing that not one of them wanted to or likely even could see him again.

It took a long two and half hours to convince her fully that he was the problem, not anyone else. The whole thing sounded ludicrous and so he didn’t blame her for being skeptical, but he refused to back down until she understood that there wasn’t some devious plot by every man he knew to assault him. Just a strange and inexplicable new development on his part. In spite of the extra effort, they were both quietly seething as they separated for the night.

He didn’t turn on the light when he entered his room, dejected and sickly and wanting nothing more than to shut his eyes for the next ten years. A bright blinking on his desk drew his attention from . There was a voicemail icon on his cell phone. Peter whipped it up and was stunned to see Johnny Storm’s number on his missed call list. He dialed in and listened, his room still dark as he sunk inevitably into his bed.

“Hey, man,” it started, already sounding queasier than a kid on a rollercoaster. “Look, I’m really sorry about, uh, disappearing and not replying to your email. Should have wrote back I guess, that would have made more sense. But I’m already talking so listen, okay? I got a call from MJ. I didn’t pick up and she didn’t leave a message, but I’m kind of freaking out man. Did you tell her? About the thing? I’m sorry, I really don’t know what happened or why I did that, like at all–“

Peter cut off the play back and immediately dialed his girlfriend instead. Why had she been calling Johnny? Did she know? Unfortunately for him there was only a dial tone waiting for him. With a grumble of displeasure he went back to calling Johnny. The phone took him to voicemail, nary a ring to be had.

“Yo yo yo, it’s your flame bro!” Peter cringed. Johnny was the worst sometimes. “You know what to do.” 

The beep pinged in his ear. “Johnny. We’re not gay. Stop freaking out. I’ve apparently developed the world’s worst superpower and it does _that._ Dudes have been coming onto me left right and centre, so stop beating yourself up and freaking call me. They’ve been working on a cure for it and I’m on some kind of antidote now so it won’t happen again. I haven’t told MJ anything, but I’ll ask her why she called. Seriously though, just talk to me when you get a chance. Capisce? Capisce.” He almost hung up, then had one last thought. “Also your voicemail message is terrible. Goodbye.”

He dropped the phone on the mattress and buried his face in his pillow. Then abruptly flipped to his back, because while he couldn’t remember everything that had happened with Logan he knew he had been face down and biting his pillow at one point to keep from screaming. There was no sanctuary to be had. He debated washing the sheets a second time, having immediately done so after cleaning the kitchen that first night.

It was fruitless, he knew, but he needed to do something. 

A muffled buzz came from beside him: a new call from Mary Jane Watson. Peter zipped it to his ear and spoke hurriedly. “Mary—“

“Let me go to voicemail.”

He listened for further explanation. It wasn’t forthcoming. “What? Why? I’m right here. I need to talk to you.”

“Hang up.”

She did so. Flabbergasted, Peter was forced to do the same. He set the phone on his pillow and watched it with thinned lips and a tight grip on his shirt sleeve, arms akimbo to keep from answering prematurely. Why he was letting her do this was beyond him. 

He didn’t blink when it buzzed, biting his lip and biding out the wait. When it had finished and a new light blinked at him in the dark he descended upon it with manic need. MJ’s voice was tight on the line.

“Yeah, this is stupid, but I need to get this out. I found Logan today, Peter.”

The ache was instant, his gut dropping into a bottomless pit. Peter switched ears on the phone to lay down on his side. His eyes were glassy and round as marbles. 

“Don’t tell me it was a mistake. Don’t tell me you realized something about yourself, that you wanted to do it. If it’s anything like that, then you don’t get to say anything to me. That’s the end of it.” There was a crinkling. Fabric swiped over the speaker, or something to cause a similar crackle. She might be calling him from bed too, swaddled in sheets. “He said you were on drugs or something, like a weird mind trick. I don’t understand that. I really don’t get what kind of psycho mumbo jumbo would make you both flip your nuts and do that. He didn’t sound like he was lying, but if he was I don’t know what to think. Did he _make_ you sleep with him? I swear, he’s a dead man if he did.

“I just…need to know if you’re alive. Which you are, so good. I don’t know what happened to you today. And you know what? I’m a little sick of not knowing what happens, because then I have to find out it’s stuff like this. You can’t keep secrets like this from me, it’s not fair and you know it. And yeah I’m being a coward, leaving you a message so you can’t talk back, but wouldn’t you be mad if you were me?”

All went quiet. Peter’s heart thumped with all the docility of a wrecking ball as MJ turned mute. “Hello?” he said tentatively, and felt stupid for it. 

“If he did hurt you or it’s…I don’t know. If there’s an explanation that doesn’t involve you lying to me and being gay the whole time you’ve been with me, then you need to spill. Now. Otherwise I just do not want to hear it. There’s only so much I can take.” Now there was more rustling, the precursor to another short pause. The message concluded with a ill-fitted, “Bye.”

Peter spent five minutes looking at his phone, in the dark, unmoving and thinking at speeds unimaginable. In the end he set his phone down and slinked into the nearest pair of shoes he had. 

Out the window, down the street. Sneaking out was so much easier when they lived next door, but they hadn’t moved so far that it was impossible. He arrived at her house, creeping up to her bedroom window, tapping at the pane. 

She was coiled at the foot of her bed, head bowed and back turned from him. The tap didn’t jolt her into action, like he had hoped. She rose quite slowly, tossing him a baleful gaze over her shoulder before deigning to open the window. 

In the light of the moon, he could see that her nose and cheeks were red, her eyes glistening. Wet patches underneath shone with a duller light. She hadn’t wiped the tears away properly. She sniffled and held a hand under her nose.

“So he did hurt you?” She spoke so quietly that Peter might have missed it had he not been inches away. She reached for his shoulders limply, brushing them before abandoning the gesture in her hesitation.

He slid his way in and took her by the hands. “No. It’s not what you think. I’ll explain everything, okay?” She regarded him warily then. “Can you shut the window?”

She obeyed, and Peter made good on his word.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Of course some of the less than stellar folks at school were making gagging noises at her when she returned the next day. Her one woman show had spread around and although Mary rarely found herself as fodder for the bully brigade, today she was going to pay her dues.

So perhaps it was a blessing that she couldn’t keep her mind off other things as the imbeciles and tittering cheerleader wannabes mimicked Exorcism style vomiting everywhere she went. It provided a unpleasant soundtrack to her day, but one that she could tune out. She adorned a lifeless mantle quite seamlessly, slumping deep in her desk. 

“You think she’s going to be patient zero?” Flash whispered from behind her. Probably to his new basketball buddy that served as a shoddy replacement for Kong. He clicked his pen on the back of her neck and leaned forward. “Mary-Brain Watson, you jonesing for the flesh of the living?”

She turned back to him with a no nonsense stare. “Aren’t you failing this class?”

Blunt blows worked best, as usual. A twinge of embarrassment crossed his eyes before he sneered and shrugged at his buddy: the universal signal for “Bitches, man.” Mary couldn’t care less. She faced the front again and was lost in the conversation with Peter all over again.

He hadn’t lied. He told her everything. Things she should have waited thirty years to hear, but instead was saddled with at fifteen years old. A kiss with Johnny, almost with a guy at the Bugle, two schmucks in an elevator who almost got his clothes off. Dr. Strange, the same one from TV, who jerked off on him. Logan, the Punisher (the mother-freaking _Punisher_ of all people), and Tony Stark. His Aunt didn’t know the whole story. No one knew except her and now she was starting to lose her mind. It was sparking in every direction and threatening full combustion at any moment. 

What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to help?

Mary wilted further still. It wasn’t as if she had been much help before either, when it was just Spider-Man issues and there were psychopaths popping out of every gutter to swear vengeance on her boyfriend. Now he was getting molested. And raped. She didn’t give a hoot about how Peter wanted to call it, it was definitely rape. Even if both parties weren’t interested. No, especially if both weren’t into it: that just added a new, undiscovered creep factor that made her want to shriek out loud because she couldn’t even be properly furious at the assholes touching him. 

She needed a solid direction. It wasn’t his fault or theirs, but that did nothing to stem the pulsing outrage inside her chest. Was it awful of her that she kept wondering how each encounter went? Her imagination was spinning wild and terrible scenarios at her for every instance, some depraved new detail penciled in every time she revisited the thought, and it scared her in the sneakiest of ways. It was like Norman Osborn and the bridge all over again. She would think she was fine and beginning to return to the world, watching calculus equations spill over the board, then it would hit her like a freight train: Tony Stark’s tongue on his stomach. Or faceless men, pushing him down, stripping him bare. Someone’s hands, holding his legs wide or throttling him. Sometimes Peter was crying and sometimes he looked like he was in a pure state of bliss. 

She had no idea how accurate any of it was, but it was all she could think about. His confession had consumed her utterly.

The bell rang. It was lunch, mercifully, where she could slink off and hide in the girl’s room even though Liz was pulling on her arm and babbling at her, asking if she was all right, did she need this or that. “I just need some alone time,” Mary muttered listlessly.

Her friend made a sour face. “Look, I know you love him and you think he’s your Prince Eric or something, but I gotta say: I really don’t like how Peter makes you depressed all the time.”

She flounced away after that. Mary was suddenly compelled to follow, to wrap her arms around her friend and never let go. Spill out everything to Liz like she sorely wanted to. Even if that ruined her just the same as Mary, they would have each other and it wouldn’t just be Peter and her holding him up when she was quivering under his weight. Some days, he hung around her neck like Jacob Marley’s chains.

Most times she decided he was worth it. One hundred and ten percent. Others, it was much, much harder to say.

The throng of students in the hall made it difficult to pry her way through to the women’s room, as usual. Mary skulked into the washroom and leaned towards the mirror, pulling at the dark circles under her eyes.

“Blleaargh, brains…” she said, her tongue lolling out. “God, I really do look like a zombie.”

The door creaked open. She saw the reflection behind her. A petite brunette, wavy hair and brown eyes, a star of David necklace dangling from her neck. “Am I interrupting?”

Mary stared at Kitty Pryde through the mirror, and Kitty stared back. It was an impasse. Eventually Kitty cleared her throat and crept her way in, shutting the door behind her. “Anyone else in here?”

“There wasn’t,” Mary said plainly. She deigned to face her properly then, crossing her arms and giving her blank look. Kitty sent one straight back.

“Yeah, okay, I get it, this is not exactly ideal. But come on. He’s been out of school for days, there’s nothing on the news about Spider-Man. You totally faked sick yesterday and ran off, and now you’re being miserable. I’m worried, so sue me.”

Mary worried the inside of her cheek between her teeth. She had been biting it hard last night while Peter recounted the past week to her, so it stood swollen now and even bumped noticeably against her teeth when she talked. “It’s nothing.”

“Baloney!” Kitty spewed.

“I mean it’s nothing like, life threatening, he’s just sick and he’s been through some awful stuff that’s messing with his head. We’re talking it out,” Mary provided honestly, fingers tangling in her hair as if the tugging could free her gut from the tight clench holding it prisoner. 

Kitty scoffed and poked a finger in her direction. “And that’s all it takes for you to start moping around like it’s Catcher in the Rye?”

“Are you here to check if we’re on the rocks?”

That got a gasp. “No!” Kitty stared at her with saucer wide eyes, covering her mouth. Then after a beat came a weak but damning, “You were just really upset, I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Kitty, I am dating your ex-boyfriend. We both know _that’s_ baloney.”

“Okay, look, I am not that psycho. I’m worried about him, all right? He’s still not in school and here you are, all like ‘blah’ in class.” Kitty gripped at her arms in a tight cross and planted herself against the wall, her stubbornness plain in her posture. “Whatever’s going on is really bad, isn’t it?”

Mary tugged harder on her hair, her scalp prickling at the savagery. She gave a false start, mouth dropping open and sealing shut, before she worked out her phrasing proper. “If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”

“Well you’re certainly handling it splendidly.”

“Oh, that does it!” Mary tossed her hands in the air. For the first time that day she was positively alive, crackling with fire to her very tips. “Yeah, fine, you’re an awesome mutant hero and you got to throw down with some big time baddies and fight Magneto and whatever, good for you! But am I supposed to feel like chopped liver because you do that and I can’t? You think I’m not ‘equipped’ to handle Peter?”

Affronted, Kitty shook her head. “I never once said that!”

“But you totally think it, don’t you?” It was Mary’s turn to jab her finger at the other girl. Kitty’s mouth fell open to object, but the retort dissipated. She shut it again as Mary continued. “Yeah, see? I’m right. But you don’t know me, Kitty. And I get Peter a lot better than you think. I have known him my whole life. I was the first person he told about Spider-Man, and I have been there. This whole time, I’ve been there, and it might not be the same as running out and beating up super powered weirdoes myself, but come on. I am _involved_. I’ve almost died a couple times and yeah, I’ve been tempted to leave.” And there Mary’s anger started to falter, tears zipping out in spite of her careful watch but she was proud to note that her voice didn’t waver one bit. “I could totally go off and date some average Joe and never worry about mobsters or gobliny jerks or watching the guy I love get smacked around again, but I don’t want to. Not even a little bit. I am not, I repeat, am _not_ giving up on him just because things are hard. And if you ask me that makes me just as qualified to be with him as any kind of superhero cred would. So cut me some slack!”

Kitty had garnered a sense of grayness, a sullen dullness around her entire body. She was studying her shoelaces with solemn severity, and her shoulders slumped forward as if determined to meet in front of her chest. “Well then.”

Mary took a deep breath and ripped tissues out of the dispenser to dab her face dry. Then, after an uncomfortable pause, fetched some for Kitty as well. The girl took them and shook a little as she blanketed her eyes, refusing to remove the paper as she spoke on in a quivering voice. “I freaking hate this.”

“Ditto,” Mary said plainly. “Why hasn’t anyone written a manual for the whole super hero turdfest?”

Kitty struggled through her laughter. “They’d make a mint.”

Mary pursed her lips. “Are you doing all right? I’m not…woof, I know it’s awkward and it sucks, but if you need someone to…”

“No, MJ. I’ll be cool. I’ve faced down Magneto, remember? High school will be a snap.” She let the tissues drop then, her eyes reddened but cool and dry. Kitty deposited them in the waste bin as Mary watched her warily.

“They’re really different beasts, you know.” When Kitty said nothing else, Mary pressed forward. “Look, for the record? I wasn’t scheming to get back together with him when he was with you. Like I was pissed when he started dating you, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t plan anything. At all. It just happened. And immediately after I was hounding him to call you because I am not that kind of a girl.”

Kitty turned away from Mary, her jaw rigid and her eyes narrowed through a queenly profile. It made her strangely beautiful and dangerous all at once, and for the first time Mary believed that she could fight a master mutant and live. She carried herself with an unshakeable meekness ever since she had started coming to school, even through the defiance. No one had made much of an effort to make her feel welcome. A mutant amongst men. “Kitty?”

“So he’s the asshole?”

Mary could do nothing but shrug. “He can be. Not on purpose. Honestly I think he’s a lot more afraid of you and me than he is of Norman Osborn.”

She rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

“But I am being serious. If you need anything—“

“MJ, as you so succinctly said before, you’re dating my ex-boyfriend. Don’t try to earn your sainthood here for my sake.” Kitty waved her off. “And now I actually need to use the toilet.”

The girl rounded Mary without further pleasantries and shut herself into a stall. Mary hesitated. She would eat with Liz, she decided then. There was still ample time left. She trod to the door, but paused at the handle and called out one last time.

“Don’t be alone if you don’t have to be. That’s all I’m saying.”

She heard Kitty’s sneakers shuffle on the tile. “Let me pee in peace, Mary Jane.”

Mary sighed and reentered the hallway, not once looking back.


	7. Welcome Back, Parker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sense of normalcy finally returns, bridges are mended, and Peter resumes his civilian life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warning for hate speech.
> 
> Chapters might be coming out a bit slower than usual now, real life picked up in the last week or so.

A barrel of monkeys recovery was not. 

Peter had spent most of the morning donating his breakfast to the toilet immediately after taking the injection. He expected as much, considering how sick and faint getting spider powers had made him. Aunt May had made good on her promise to keep him company and take the day off work, but he wasn’t in much shape to be keeping company at all. Mostly he felt miserable and slept a lot. Almost hardly in his bed, however, as his Aunt lamented when she came into the kitchen and found him dozing off next to his tomato soup, forehead on the table and arms dripping to the floor.

“Peter, sit up,” she patted his back. “You’re going to get a mark on your head.”

“Mrrgh.”

This continued into the afternoon, but began to taper by three or four. Peter was still nauseous but could wander around without teetering and largely stayed awake and upright. He watched drivel and cop shows on TV while his Aunt sorted through laundry, and absently rolled the socks together in pairs at her behest.

Neither expected the doorbell to ring at quarter to five. Aunt May left to check who it was, muttering about the salesman who had been making rounds in their neighborhood as of late, and came back looking slightly happier with Mary Jane in tow. She sent him a secretive smile and offered the plastic bag in her hands to him.

“Thought you could use some cheering up,” MJ said slyly. 

Peter grinned wide as she plopped down next to him and immediately dug in to help with the laundry. “You didn’t have to do that.” He opened it, and found himself gaping at a box set of Star Trek: The Next Generation that had been eluding him in stores for ages. “Okay, you really did not have to do that.”

“No, I really did. You deserve it.” She kissed him on the cheek and he temporarily forgot about the unhappy turns in his stomach. “You gotta look outside of the Virgin Megastore to get the good stuff. It’s always picked over.”

“That’s very sweet of you, MJ,” his Aunt added, and MJ beamed at her. 

Peter raised a brow at her. “You didn’t hit up a pawn shop for it, did you?”

“No, I just gave one of my kidneys to a guy in a trench coat.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “It was at Barnes and Noble. Nobody ever buys DVDs at Barnes and Noble so they have this secret treasure trove of stuff. Strategy.” MJ put on a sagely look and pointed to her head as if it were the eighth wonder of the world. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Peter deferred to his Aunt, grounded as he was, and she gave a hesitant nod and waved at the stairs. “Make sure he’s all right getting up the stairs MJ, he’s been ill all day because of that antidote. And leave the door open.”

He wrinkled his nose and grumbled that he was fine, but he did not mind one bit as MJ took him by the arm and guided him to his own room. 

“So,” she said, suddenly turning away and wringing her hands. “I just wanted to come up here and apologize for everything.”

He furrowed his brows. “Uh—“

“No really Peter, I am here to apologize. I just had this kind of epiphany today.” She whirled, hair flying about like a crimson whip and she stole a seat on his bed. He joined her there and tried to squash down phantom memories of Logan’s hands at his back. He must not have been terribly successful because she took his hand in hers with such ginger affection, as if he were finely spun glass and flesh and bone. “Kitty Pryde tried to ask me about you today, and I just flipped at her. Really badly.”

“Oh no.” Peter wrinkled his nose. “You fought with her?”

“No, not really, I just kind of laid it out for her that I was tougher than she thought and then it was just really awkward. I think she’s pretty miserable right now,” MJ played with her ring as she spoke, twisting the stone around and around her finger. “But the thing is, I’ve been taking a lot of this incredibly badly, and it’s not fair to you. And the weird thing is it took her coming at me and assuming I was crumbling apart because I couldn’t handle it to make me realize that hey, I totally can. And I want to.”

Peter was slightly mortified. “MJ, no. No no no, you’re not being unreasonable at all.”

“I am.”

“No! Come on, I mean, I’ve been – this is not at all something normal people have to do with their relationships. Even before this it’s been supremely weird. Not to mention dangerous. And I’m making you put up with so much crap and I feel like a grade A herb, because you didn’t ask for this kind of crazy nonsense.” Peter took her by the shoulders and pressed their foreheads together, hers a cool reprieve for the inferno that was his own. “If we’re being honest here, there was a point, like right after what happened with Logan, where I thought I should maybe break up with you again.”

MJ squawked indignantly and shoved him off. “You ass!”

“Well, it really isn’t fair for me—“

“You already did this once, you jerk! And we got back together anyway, didn’t we? What does that prove?”

“I am not breaking up with you now!”

“Good, because I would end you.” She glared heavily and crossed her arms. “My whole point is that as scary and as messed up as this is, and as crazy as it’s going to make me sometimes, I am not quitting because it’s too hard. I spent money on Star Trek for you. That alone shows how committed I am to your stupid butt face.”

“I have a butt face?” Peter queried.

“A big stupid one.” Mary Jane put her hands on his cheeks and pushed them together. “Look, it’s totally a butt.”

“Well yours is too.” He returned the favor even if she snickered and tried to pull away, eventually tipping over as he descended on her and squished her cheeks. “See, it’s much bigger than mine.”

She blew a messy raspberry and he broke down laughing. 

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

They grinned breathlessly at one another.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The nausea had, thankfully, subsided in following days. The medicine was being much kinder to him, and to their great surprise the Parkers found a package waiting for them the next day containing several needles and shipment ready vials of three varieties. Daily fluid samples were required for proper testing, and Peter found his arms suffered more than his stomach, either donating shots or taking them morning and night. They couriered blood and urine daily, and irksome as it could be Peter was all the happier for doing so in the comfort of his home.

His Aunt was obligated to return to work but Peter didn’t mind, and found that it wasn’t half so hard to stay at home and do nothing as he feared. There were no major shake-ups on the news, villainy, burglaries or otherwise. MJ brought over stacks of homework to keep him busy. He even called into the Bugle and asked if he could tackle website coding from home, and they happily obliged. (Though Jameson imposed some strict guidelines on how he would be charged for said work, seeing as Peter was completely without Bugle supervision and could spend the whole day on Reddit and Youtube while earning a neat sum.) Even so, the couch became his new best friend and he reveled in the first chance he had to be lazy in a long, long while.

“I won’t lie,” his Aunt remarked once, “I am happy to see you around the house more, but you are leaving a permanent mark on my sofa.”

“I am marking my territory,” he had replied.

“Well there’s other territory that needs marking.” When he had only raised a brow she handed him a bottle of oven cleaner and dish gloves, and he groaned piteously as he trudged into the kitchen. When his task was complete and he returned his Aunt had taken over his spot and was engrossed in a home and garden magazine, demanding he bring her lemonade.

So it wasn’t until five days later that the shroud of domesticity that had fallen over the Parker household was lifted with a phone call, begging that Peter come into Stark Industries for a checkup. Though Aunt May protested the need to go out in public and pinched her brows together while Peter watched with a speeding pulse, she reassured him after it wasn’t Tony himself on the line. It was a woman named Janet, and Peter pumped his fist in the air because for what might have been the first time in recorded history, S.H.I.E.L.D. was listening to him.

When she heard the news MJ insisted on tagging along and would not take no for an answer. As she told a still flustered Peter, it wasn’t just for moral support. “I’m going to be your muscle,” she claimed, posing with her hands on her hips, “I’ve been working on my menacing glares and flexing my guns.”

All three of them piled into the car and headed for Manhattan. The comely blond at the front desk gave them a key fob and slip of paper with a floor and room number, and waved them towards the elevator without a single question or fleck of interest. MJ and Aunt May flanked him on either side, which he pretended embarrassed him but neither one was fooled. Peter’s eyes darted all over the lobby for signs of an incoming threat. So far, the serum seemed to be working miracles. Comparatively. Not a single man (or woman) was giving him so much as a sideways glance. 

Which reminded him: he had to press the need to pass this onto Jessica. If they had not found her yet she could only be getting worse.

The room that had been designated was much more like a doctor’s office than Peter expected, though larger and lacking the paper covered seat and awkward anatomical charts. Perched in a chair and leafing through Stephen King’s _Carrie_ was Janet van Dyne, who cast a peppy smile upon them the moment they entered. “Peter, right? We’ve met.” 

She extended a dainty hand to shake and he did so, returning her grin. “Peter Parker, yep. This is my Aunt May and my girlfriend, Mary Jane.”

“Oh! Alliterative. That will be much easier to remember. Hello Mrs. Parker, Mary Jane. You can call me Janet. Let’s make this quick, shall we?” 

She took some more blood and sealed it in a flask, then performed a mostly routine check up for other signs of ailments. “You say the nausea’s subsided, but I’m not sure if you should be having any at all,” she muttered conspiratorially and she depressed his tongue and checked his throat. “Hopefully this new batch won’t be a big issue.”

“So did anyone tell you what I’m actually getting treated for?” Peter asked queasily. Janet shot him a look of deep sympathy and nodded.

“It’s okay, hun.” She patted him on the arm. “There’s lots worse. Some poor kid a while back woke up emitting a poison gas that melted everyone around him. Or something like that? Didn’t even realize why the streets were empty until he got to his school.”

“You’re kidding,” MJ remarked breathlessly, but his Aunt was covering her mouth in distant shock.

“I remember that. That was on the news.”

“Case in point,” Janet said with a cluck of her tongue. “But I’m not going to lie, we’re going to need some time with this little bugger,” she waggled the flask of his freshly donated blood, “before we can pinpoint the real deal. The serum’s taking care of the symptoms, it seems, but we’d rather not have to treat this like it’s diabetes. You can’t be taking shots for the rest of your life.”

“I can’t be Spider-Man and taking shots,” Peter agreed.

“Exactly. No offense, but you have a real knack for getting kidnapped by nutjobs.”

He shrugged. “One of my many charms.”

“And I doubt they’d let you have a breather to take your meds. Plus eventually we’d have to bill you, and that’s not going to be pretty.”

“And what happens if you can’t fix him?” Aunt May materialized at Janet’s sleeve, pleading to the woman with pointed precision. “What happens if it’s incurable and we can’t afford that medicine anymore?”

Janet took a hard look at all three of them, twisting her lips. “It’s too early to say. I wish I could give you more to work with, but we’ve only been working on it for a week or so, right? These things take time. We’ll discuss alternatives if it comes to that.” It was Peter’s arm she patted in comfort, but her eyes remained on his Aunt. “We’re doing everything we can. I promise.”

Janet’s phone rang and she removed herself momentarily, shifting to the other corner of the room to talk. MJ took Aunt May’s hand and smiled at her in solidarity. Peter bent down to hug and kiss his Aunt while Janet was occupied, and whispered, “They know what they’re doing. If anyone can help, they can.”

“I know, I know,” she said anxiously, “But it’s the last thing we needed to happen to us. To you.”

“I’ll stay at home for as long as it takes.”

She exchanged a look with MJ that threaded his smile with taut apprehension. “What?”

MJ tugged at her hair. “Well, what if someone comes looking for Spider-Man?” 

“Surprise,” Janet announced suddenly, spooking Peter upright and stealing the spotlight. They would have to continue their conversation later. “You’ve got company waiting in the lobby. Just in time for me to go, too.”

“Company?” Aunt May repeated.

“Who?” Peter asked, but Janet wouldn’t say. She shook her head and shrugged on a blazer and tucked her book in a purse. 

“Mum’s the word, chum. Their request.” She said no more, but pressed a new case into his Aunt’s arms and walked them through the specifics. He would have to up his dosage, one shot every four hours, and he was on strict orders to report every last twitch and dizzy wave. When the lecture wrapped Janet opened the door and waved them through like a valet, giving a polite nod to MJ and Aunt May. “It was nice to meet you two. And chin up, all right?”

Peter let the other two exit before him and leaned into Janet before he followed, speaking a cautious hush. “Are you still looking for her?”

She was stunned but returned the conspiratorial tone without question. “Her? Oh! Yes, of course we are! We’ve just had no luck, I’m afraid. If she contacts you let us know, A.S.A.P.”

“I’m giving her the antidote the minute I do.”

“We’ll make extras.”

She waved him off for good and he trotted back to his expectant troupe.

The trio left, a little less maudlin than before but no less wary. MJ and Aunt May still positioned around him like soldiers in arms while they rode the elevator down, no matter how emphatically Peter rolled his eyes. 

When they entered the lobby once more, Peter and MJ knew at once who their guests were. Aunt May had to lean down and pull Peter’s sleeve. “Is that who I think—“

“It is,” Peter replied uneasily. 

Sue and Johnny Storm were dressed cool but casually, and Johnny was holding a box in front of him with resentful delicacy. It was white and suspiciously cake sized. Sue waved them over and hugged Peter when he came near. A few people shot them glances, the sight of real celebrities pushing a ripple in the staunch, money-minded sensibility about the place.

“Heard you were going through stuff. Again.” She said. “And Johnny has something to say to you.”

“My cake has something to say to you,” he corrected. Peter was red in the face already, but he popped the lid and dipped it down to show the three of them a loopy, “I’m sorry” scrawled across the top in red and blue icing. “It was supposed to say ‘I am sorry I gay chickened out on you and then didn’t talk to you for two weeks’ but I didn’t want to tip off the catering company.”

MJ was laughing but Peter was cringing behind her. “Yeah, but you’re tipping off everyone in the lobby that I know the Fantastic Four.”

“Do any of them go to your school?” Johnny looked around. “I don’t think they do, bro.”

“You should say thank you Peter,” Aunt May chided, but seemed equally antsy with the traffic of men and women in suits peering at their pow wow. “Oh, but maybe we shouldn’t do this now.”

“Let’s go somewhere, then,” Sue said brightly. “We just got out of Dallas yesterday, thank god, feels like forever. You’re Mrs. Parker, correct? I’m Sue Storm, really nice to meet you. Sorry about this but I told Johnny—”

He grimaced at his sister. “Will you let me do my own talking? Or am I banned from that too?” He passed the cake off to her and thrust his hands in his pockets as he shuffled closer to Peter. He instinctively drew back but if Johnny noticed he was being uncharacteristically subtle about it. MJ, perhaps a little unnecessarily, drew closer as well and clutched Peter’s arm. Johnny spoke much more quietly now. “I really am sorry though. That was dumb.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Peter said, but wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Did you tell everyone or what?”

“No, just Sue. You think I’d spread this around? Come on man, you aren’t that pretty.”

“Shut up.” Peter almost punched his arm but refrained at the last second, leaving them both to squirm uncomfortably on the spot. Sue had struck up conversation with his Aunt, and it looked altogether too amicable to believe. “Seriously, what did you tell her?”

“Just that we kissed and I didn’t know what happened. And I played your voicemail for her – look, I didn’t know what to do!” he backpedaled at Peter’s dark glare. “I was confused, man! I had this horrible night where I convinced myself that I was totally into dudes so I looked up stuff on the internet and it was awful. If anything you owe me five minutes of my life back.”

“You actually looked at gay porn for five whole minutes?” MJ queried, raising a brow.

“Hey, I had to be sure! I was having a crisis!”

Peter did find himself snickering then. “Well rest assured, it was all my crappy stupid luck. You’re straight as an arrow.”

“Damn right,” Johnny affirmed, and put an arm around Mary Jane. She burst out in a fury of giggles and wriggled away as Peter scoffed indignantly, tugging her into his chest and wrapping his arms around her protectively.

“Storm, this is your last warning.”

“Hey, I’m just saying if we want to clear the air and all we should complete the circle. I’ll french MJ and then we’ll have all made out with each other! No hard feelings for anyone.” Johnny waggled his eyebrows at her. “And we all know that’s the real reason you’re jealous. Pete got to make out with the Human Torch and you didn’t.”

“Oh my god,” MJ groaned.

“You’re the worst,” Peter declared.

Johnny shrugged, toothy grinned as he had ever been. “It’s my specialty.”

“Hey, you three!” Sue and Aunt May were infiltrating their group once again. “Mrs. Parker says we can come over for casserole. Let’s go.”

“Wait, are you cool now?” Johnny interjected, taking a step away from Peter as if he had only just remembered what had happened between them. Peter pointed to the new case of the serum in his Aunt’s grip. 

“I’ve been good. Better, I guess. They’ve hooked me up with super-Buckley’s. Or whatever the medicinal equivalent of this is.”

Sue gave her brother an evil eye and balanced the cake on one hand so that she could make a fist in his direction. “And I’ll beat the snot out of you if I notice things getting unseemly.”

“Whose side are you on?!” The group finally made their exit, pushing into the golden light of the outdoors. “So who else did you have to mack on to figure out it was a wonky power thing and not your secret desire for my hot bod?”

“Johnny, you will literally never know.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Mr. Stark? Sir?”

Tony didn’t move immediately. He was frowning at a computer screen, a mess of diagrams and blueprints scattered all over it. Something made him squint harder and he enlarged one. The aide peered over, curious, and noticed several matching printouts on the desk as well.

“Is that the Triskelion?”

“Yes. It is.” Tony closed the window the next minute and pinched his brow. “We’re looking at upgrading some security features. What is it?”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate,” the aide noted sympathetically. She dropped a sealed envelope on his desk, which he slid closer and tore into without pretense. “Hope this isn’t too much trouble then, but research asked me to send this over in person. Top Secret.”

“Hmm…” he scanned over the first page, holding it flat against the envelope so that she couldn’t read it. “Oh. Yes. This. Thank you, Barbara.”

“It’s Antigone.”

“Oh, damn, my apologies.” He flashed her a grin, brilliant and charming. “Let me make it up to you. Dinner Thursday? Catch you at eight?”

She blushed high around the ears and tittered, eyes darting around the room. “Lord, Mr. Stark, I’m flattered but I—“

“So someone beat me to the punch.” He held up a hand in defeat and gave her a wink. “I’ll find another way to make it up to you, ‘Gone. Scout’s honor. Mind closing the door on your way out?”

Still flushing furiously, she nodded. “Yes, I will. Have a good evening, Mr. Stark.”

The smile, sweet and just the right degree of smarmy, stayed on until she had made good on her word. Then it fell into greedy curiosity, yanking out the pages of the file and gobbling up the contents. There were no indicative names or dates. Shallow dimples marred his cheeks when he found even less to his liking on the next page, a small frown betraying a very big vexation. “What am I even looking at?” 

The screens recaptured his focus. He minimized the blueprints momentarily, poking around in other folders. When he had found what he was looking for his brows shot upwards and his eyes went wide.

Without wasting a moment, he fed the papers into a compact copier, just below the monitor and beside his knees. As fresh copies were spat out he queued the open files to print straight after, and drew a phone from his pocket. He dialed a number and turned his gaze to the security monitors. Suited men and women buzzed around on the screens, passing by his office and nursing coffees like they were water from the Fountain of Youth. At last, the ringing ceased. “It’s me,” he said quickly.

“What are you doing? Call when you’re out of the office.”

“There’s been a new development.”

“So?”

Tony licked his lips and thumbed through the papers again. “Listen, I’m not certain what exactly it is. But this could be a lead.”

“So tell me later.”

“Two words: Spider-Man.”

There was a pause on the other end. “…What?”

“I’ve got lab reports on the guy. I can’t decipher them. I think it’s a DNA issue, but I’m not a geneticist.” He leaned forward on the desk, rummaging through the open files on the desktop. Hard lights shifted on his face as images sprung up and were banished. “I can’t email anything from here. Too risky. But I’m making copies and printing anything that looks relevant.”

“And what about the goddamn plan? Am I supposed to give a shit about Spider-Man?”

“Maybe you should. Looks like he’s on their radar in a big way. Do a little research in the meantime, will you?” Abruptly, Tony went stiff. Some movement on the security monitors caught his attention. “Shit.”

“What? What is it?” The voice gave an exasperated sigh. “I told you not to do this now.”

“We’ll finish this later. Just look into the basics, and get someone on board who can decode this DNA crap. Gotta go.”

Every last file was closed, and the computer logged out. He scooped up the original papers and pulled apart the drawers, searching restlessly until he found a stack of envelopes. The papers were thrust inside the first one he snatched off the top, the seal hastily licked and shut. The copies were then stuffed in the torn envelope, and were shortly joined by the Triskelion diagrams that littered the rest of the desk. 

Then, so calmly it was almost perfunctory, Tony began to shrink, his hair sprouting long and loose and honey brown, his chest swelling as his whole frame shrunk by a sharp six inches. The suit flipped into a smart blouse and skirt with modest brown pumps and stockings. With a toss of her hair the newly minted woman tucked the pack of copies into her blouse, masked it under the belt of her skirt, shifting until it sat just right against her belly and made no telling lumps or protrusions. She moved out from behind the desk and reclaimed the freshly sealed envelope, a perfect twin to the original, just as the door swung open.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Stark.”

A much more harried version of Tony Stark regarded her curiously. Thin violet sacs had underlined his eyes for the better half of the week. “Antigone, how did you get in here? I thought I—“

“You forgot to lock it? I’m sorry. I thought you were in here, but then I saw you coming on the cameras so I stayed put.” She strode forward and passed him the documents. “From research. Top Secret, as per your request.”

“Ah, thank you.”

She smiled and dipped her head in reverence. “My pleasure.”

She left the office in Antigone’s skin, cool and confident and throwing a wink to the security guard when he did a double take at her, passing his station for the second time that day.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Well look who’s back,” drawled Liz Allan when Peter meandered into the classroom one Wednesday afternoon, looking every bit mousy and humbled with his shoulders drooped and his head hung low. Peter shrugged and gave her a wave, but did not miss the cool undertones lurking beneath her greeting. “Heard you had the plague.”

“I was pretty much the human embodiment of medieval Europe, yes. But the doctors gave me a nice note saying the Dark Ages are over, so here I am.” 

It wasn’t a note, but rather another surprise phone call from Janet saying that his most recent samples showed an excellent response to the antidotes. All progress made had been solely on the treatment end and the actual cure was left in a lurch, but both the samples and Peter’s own strangely mundane supper with the Storms promised that he was fit for the public once more. (The worst Johnny had done was soundly thrash him and everyone else at cards, and Aunt May told Sue they were welcome to come back any time.) He was strictly forbidden from playing Spider-Man, which rankled, but he was happy to get out and get back to living pronto. Besides, how long could both Peter Parker and Spider-Man stay missing in action before someone put two and two together? One of them had to get back on the streets eventually.

He slung his backpack over his chair and gave MJ a kiss on the cheek before sitting down. He noticed Liz grousing a bit at that and wondered what conclusions she had drawn. MJ couldn’t have come into school all sunshine and giggles while he was away. Especially right after the night he told her, he recalled with a queasy turn. He supposed he would have to be extra sweet to them both to make up for it. Peter smiled warmly at her, his very best effort. “What did I miss?”

“Not much.”

“We have a paper due,” MJ urged.

“Not much at all.” Liz waved a hand in the air.

Kong had barged into the fold too, dropping his books on the other side of Liz’s desk and launching into another topic entirely. “Yo, Pete.” He nodded with a stilted solemness, unusual for a guy who packed as much gusto as he. “Dude, did you hear about Spider-Man?”

Peter hoped the way that he stiffened wasn’t as transparent as it felt. He and MJ nearly shot each other suspicious looks – he could see her head twitch ever so slightly in his direction and he just knew he’d done the same – but ultimately refrained. “Nice to see you too, Kong.”

“They’re saying its been two weeks since anyone’s seen him.” He was looking at Peter, who in turn wrinkled his nose. Was that as pointed a query as it sounded, or was he being unduly paranoid again? 

Liz was having none of this. “Can we not with freaking Spider-Man? For once?” 

“I agree,” said MJ soundly.

“I’m just saying, dude’s been gone for like…” Kong trailed off, staring over Peter’s shoulder.

Peter turned, and found a stiff and cross armed Kitty Pryde standing behind him. Her backpack was still draped over her shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hi?” What he meant was ‘Uh oh,’ but MJ was right next to him and giving him big, urgent eyes to beam some telepathic plea at him. Too bad he wasn’t Jean Grey or he might have caught it proper. 

“So you’re not sick anymore?” There was the barest emphasis on the word ‘sick’, but at least Kitty had a reason to act cagey in public. Unlike Kong.

“Um,” Liz interjected, leaning forward. “You know Peter? How did that happen, exactly?”

Kitty glowered down at her. “Well. I noticed there was an empty desk in class, you see.” She rapped Peter’s desk with her knuckles. “And because it stayed empty for so long, I wondered if the guy that used to sit in it was going to be okay.”

“Yeah, but you don’t even like, know him.” Liz’s frown deepened. “How long have you even been here? Like a month?”

“Lord.” Kitty rolled her eyes and Kong shot Liz a dirty look and hissed, “Come off it.” MJ was shooting power daggers at Liz too, and that made Peter just the eensiest bit more proud of her. 

“I’m fine. I’m better. Are you all right? Kitty?”

Peter was trapped in a triad of silence, both MJ and Kong pressingly silent on either end of him. Liz made for a baffled tail end on the otherwise perfect triangle, almost an afterthought. Before him, Kitty was perfectly composed.

“Never better.”

She strode coolly to her own desk, and that was that. Liz flipped her hair again and coaxed Kong into deep analysis of the recent travesties late night MTV had to offer. This time Peter allowed the furtive glance to his girlfriend, and she scribbled him a note on the edge of her paper. _You NEED to talk to her sometime._

Peter regarded her skeptically. Most girlfriends wouldn’t push you to go running after an ex to make sure she was okay. But then, most girlfriends were nothing like Mary Jane.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His return to the Bugle came with even less fanfare. Ben Urich, understandably, only nodded to him from across the room, and Betty Brant raised her eyebrows and tossed him a, “Feeling better?” on her way to the cooler, neither waiting nor wanting his response. Robbie did give him a passing, “Heya!” but said no more.

Call him strange but that was almost as comforting as it was galling. If nothing else, at the Daily Bugle he was only that tiny kid Jameson hired to untangle the web coding. School was getting to be a hassle, with Kong pushing him about Spider-Man this morning and Kitty hovering on the edge of his comfort zone.

And good lord almighty, did it ever feel good to be more worried about those mundane, regularly scheduled Peter Parker Problems over how he was going to avoid getting into ‘pickles’ with embarrassingly old men. 

Jonah Jameson made a point of calling him in for a perfunctory debriefing (“If I had known you were going to take a year off I might have been able to get you sick pay!”) and dropped a stack of work into his arms. He was performing double duty now, catching up on the bits and pieces he couldn’t do from home, and he waddled out of Jameson’s office with the work that belonged to an unpaid intern and told himself to be grateful that no one had thought to point out that Peter was the most expendable member on staff. Yet.

In fact, he was kept so busy that when eight o’clock rolled around and he was told to ship out, Peter was stunned that more than fifteen minutes had passed at all. He slipped out of the office with a wide grin, humming to himself. No one had hit on him. All day, not one human being had tried anything untoward, not even with the slightest of glances. He was able to slip away for bathroom breaks and take his shots, he walked down the street, he took his classes and did his work and no one pestered him at all. It was a miracle.

The elevator was taking its sweet time today. The little huddle around it of harried reporters and editors was an exasperated one, and Orwell was pushing the down button every two seconds like it was a symptom of disorder. Peter couldn’t care. He tapped his feet and let himself smile wide in silence, content with the day’s work.

His happy reverie took a brutal shaking when someone clapped a hand on his shoulder from behind. Peter turned and gawked. It was one of the men from finances, or marketing – whichever floor it was that Peter could never be bothered to remember – that had ambushed him in the elevator.

“Hey,” he said. There was nothing on his face. Impassivity, a complete blankness of opinion or impression. “You got a minute?”

“Uh,” Peter said, suddenly sweating at the brow and drained of any happy thought. Robbie Roberston cast them a curious look, but said nothing. The man switched his grip, patting him out of the crowd by the flat of his back and herding him towards the stairwell. 

He could absolutely handle this, he thought to himself. This guy was only a man. His spider senses were not tingling. And if anything, he felt a little chilly. No heat, no worries. His gut still sank when the man shut the door behind him and the sound echoed through the cement maze.

The man said nothing for a moment. He looked around them, up at the ceiling and halted on the round black dome above their heads, clearly sheltering a security camera. He turned back to Peter, who had taken to looking as unimposing as possible. It should have worked since he was barely five and a half feet tall and looked like Bambi turned human (an unflattering comparison Liz had made once, as relayed by MJ), except that the man’s expression was no longer serenely inhuman, but drawn with the forboding tension of a noose. “You remember me?” he said. His voice was a deep timbre.

“Yeah,” Peter answered honestly. This wasn’t the one who had called him Peach and Sweetie Pie. It was the quieter of the two, and therefore had been considered the less frightening up until now.

“Do you know my name?”

“No.”

He clicked his tongue and his teeth peeked through, a prim show dog baring fangs. “Do you know his?”

Peter thinned his lips and shook his head, pressing forward. “Look, it was a mistake and I’m not going to—“

The man snatched him by the lapel and pushed him into the wall. “Shut up, faggot.”

Peter’s eyes blew wide. The man’s face turned to a sculpture of razors, lethal edges to the bones and deadly lines where his brows drew together that promised blood should Peter try to reach out and touch them. “We’ve got you pegged. You hear me? I know your name. I know you live with your Auntie and you’re in the tenth grade in Midtown fucking High. And you know what else?”

Peter’s heart raced and his blood boiled, but he dared not interrupt. The man tapped him on the shoulder, a prod to keep him in line, and his eyes lit with a hateful spark. “I know that you can barely afford the house you live in. I know that if you say so much as a word to anyone about what happened, if you try to file a complaint or bitch to your boss about this? We will bury you. You take this to court and you’ll be paying out the ass for it until you’re eighty five.”

It wasn’t as if he were in real danger here. There was no spider-sense tingling, even with the livid disgust oozing out of the man at every inch. The threat wasn’t to his life. Yet Peter found himself thrown all the same. He spoke slowly. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”

“That so?” The man’s brow arched, and it struck Peter that it was immaculately kept when he saw how precise its form was, how not a single stray hair grew on any side. The Patrick Bateman impression worsened for it. He released Peter, stepping back and tugging his sleeve cuffs back to proper order. “Good boy.”

Peter scowled, still flat against the wall as the man straightened himself. Their eyes never unlocked. Peter made to leave but the man interjected one last time. “And there’s no tapes. Don’t even bother trying for security.”

“I’m not –“

“It’s one thing to say so, sweetheart, but you and I both know you’d love to a free ride to college out of our pockets.” He clucked his tongue again, the sound assaulting Peter like nails on a chalkboard. He only just refrained from smacking him over the railing and down every flight of stairs. “You won’t have anything. Your word versus ours.”

Peter let him make a victorious exit, cool and wordless and gliding on air. He stayed still against the wall, simmering, fists tight, staring down at the border between stairwell and a long drop. 

He pulled his backpack free and unzipped it, peering inside. Deep down inside, stuffed underneath his books there was the dim shade of red in crumpled folds. 

He had made a promise.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

But there was absolutely nothing better for a wretched mood than a good swing around New York City and someone dumb and mid-crime to hit. The wind felt glorious, the night air was sweet (and slightly smoggy, as always), and Peter couldn’t stop revelling in how good the city looked from the air all over again, all sparkles and lights fifteen, fifty, a hundred stories up. After two weeks of being cooped up and spooking at the slightest sounds, sailing through the sky felt positively godly.

And yet he was still smarting from the man’s frigid threats. The condescension, calling him ‘faggot’. Peter clenched his teeth and let himself give an angry roar as he swung, far enough up that no one would hear his insane rumbles and rants. “What kind of a dingbat, presumptuous old asshole comes to a kid like – ugh! Somebody, rob something! Now!”

He swung high. He swung low. Peter whipped himself around Manhattan with olympic speed and caught sight of nothing amiss. Everyone was peachy keen and milling about, catching movies and out for fine dining.

“Heeey, hooo, where did all the bad guys gooo…” Peter swung a neat circle around a spire and saw nothing in the streets below. “Seriously, this is my welcome back week and nobody wants to say hello to my mighty fists? My noble high kicks? Not even a little head butt?” Yet a lot more nothing waited for him on the next twenty blocks. “New York, since when are you this boring?”

His prayers were answered shortly.

He had almost forgotten how bad for his head his spider senses could be. What had interjected another seemingly innocuous swing as a low hum burgeoned, slowly defeaning real sound the closer he got to Central Park. Peter was going to get whiplash the way he was jerking his head around. He couldn’t find what it was he was getting warned about, nary a missile in the sky or a murderous man in a rhino suit below. 

“I am going to regret this, aren’t I?” he muttered, firing off his last web and flipping squarely onto a park bench, hidden amongst the leafiest foliage in the place. A woman jogging around the bend shrieked and ran back the way she came upon seeing him. “Wow! At least I didn’t blow eighty dollars on yoga pants to get in shape!”

Perhaps it was for the best that she ran. The buzzing took an abrupt spike the moment she disappeared again and he was still unsure why. Peter clutched at his head and hissed, knees buckling a little as the pressure and pain doubled in tandem. 

A twig snapped in the bushes behind. With it came a voice, low and eerily familiar. “Parker?”

He turned, squinting, and saw Eddie Brock standing ragged in the bushes. He looked gaunt. Tattered clothes, a hollowness to his cheeks, his hair thin and a waning purple stripe under each eye. He regarded Peter with a stare like a knife, eyes glittering and greedy. A wide, blissful smile birthed across his cheeks at the sight of him. As if Peter were the second coming of Christ.

“Eddie?” Peter said, still clutching his temples. The adrenaline thrummed to life in his body and stood his hairs on end. 

“Missed you lots,” Eddie said. The slasher smile was expected. The sincerity was not.

It wasn’t so much a transformation as it was an explosion. One instant there was just a man, and the next there was a burgeoning, lumpy behemoth, inky black tendrils shooting off of every inch of skin and the head splitting in half as shark teeth sprouted, ivory white in a curve from ear to ear. A foot long tongue swung out as it screeched. The peal of sound sent birds to the sky and Peter could hear startled shouts of picnickers from beyond the trees.

He nearly fainted from the resulting boom in his head. “I miss boring New York already.”


	8. Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter learns a hard lesson about tempting fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for very graphic rape and violence. And for Venom in general.
> 
> If you're not familiar with the Ultimate Universe's take on Venom, the general gist is:  
> \- Unlike the regular Venom, this one pings Peter's spider senses so badly that sometimes the pain stops him in his tracks  
> \- The suit needs to constantly feed on human DNA, and so Eddie has generally spent his time casually devouring people whole by sucking them into the suit.  
> \- Because it was created in a lab and is not an alien like regular canon, it's arguable whether the suit is alive and cognizant or not. For all purposes it seems to operate more on base animal instinct than any higher thought. It appears that speaking intelligently while using it is a struggle, and it can force your body to act on its will, even though you're conscious inside. Eddie seems to have come to a peace with it though and can morph in and out of the suit at will (mostly).
> 
> That's the most I pertinent details I can think of. There are others but they're mostly irrelevant. 
> 
> Also sorry for the wait on this, but that might be the typical time now for chapters to come out. :(

Nick Fury loathed paperwork. But even when you were arguably the world’s top spy (and that was an argument you didn’t want to pick with him) you had to do paperwork. In fact, probably more of it. Being the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. meant being responsible for yutzes that you didn’t even know you were responsible for, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. 

So normally when his communicator beeped he welcomed the excuse to jet off and deal with bigger matters. Physical action. Mental engagement. A birthday with crappy grocery store cake in the break room, any goddamn thing would do. 

Except today. He frowned, and spun in his chair to pull up the local news on a gargantuan screen that spanned wall to wall in front of him. 

A perfectly coiffed blond in a teal suit was reporting, one eyebrow cocked and a tacky illustration of the last problem Nick Fury wanted to be dealing with right now hovering above her in the top corner of the screen. “Local superhero Spider-Man spotted for the first time in weeks today, swinging around Manhattan’s financial district and on the outskirts of Central Park. Speculation as to his death and subsequent disappearance, however, is not yet entirely disproved, as some claim this may be an imposter sent to keep the public in the dark—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Nick grunted, already punching in the number of his best surveillance squads. “Kid couldn’t take one day off.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

No time wasted, not a moment’s warning, not even a breath to spare: Peter was knocked backwards through the trees into another clearing, finding himself smacking into the center of the Strawberry Fields memorial. Shrieks abounded from the park folk as Venom followed, erupting from the trees as a black mass of claw and teeth and bright white ink blots for eyes, as strange a monster as one could concoct. Luckily everyone was smart enough to clear out on sight (one man was yelling something like “New York is death!”, which was fair enough: there were times when Peter wondered why anyone bothered trying to live here) but he was not about to stage a fight in the middle of Central Park. One, too many people, and two, not enough tall things to swing off of. Plus grass stains were a total pain.

So instead of trying to counter Venom off the bat Peter barreled upright, smartly dodged a swipe and ran. He jumped to the trees and prayed that the flimsy limbs could hold him for the barest amount of time. It was all he needed to zip to the next one, and over and over again until he hit the edge of the park. Venom followed and took no care for the majesty of the nature. His path was a line of dust and flying leaves and cracking branches. The chaos could probably be traced by satellite.

They broke onto Central Park West and 72nd in seconds. Peter cleared the road with a web, breathing easier now that he could take this to higher ground but panicking over the lack of immediate rumble turf. The water wasn’t far from there; it was a thin margin edged over from the bulk of the park that he would have to face Venom in, and one that was densely populated. He could try to lead Venom elsewhere, further along the island to some abandoned place.

Except that Venom was so much faster than his average pursuer, and even as Peter was swinging from his third building the beast over took him and crashed into a glass window, one foot in while the rest dragged out and bellowed at Peter as he swung closer, too late to change his course. Apparently he didn’t have to fuss over picking his arena after all.

Peter delivered the first hit, a kick to the head that detached Venom from the building, and a second that sent him sailing to the pavement below. Peter followed, fully intending to hit him with the best he had before things got out of hand. When he landed he was already forced to duck a hit to his middle, bending backwards as if Venom’s claws were no more than a limbo pole. Peter threw a wallop of his own on the upswing but missed.

Venom’s fist careened into his face, and Peter could have sworn it was made of pure steel. He was knocked into the air and battered further when he hit the ground spinning, clobbering his head with an atrocious crack and scraping through his costume on his knees and forearm. Blood welled where the skin had been raked through, his vision swarming with black. Usually those kinds of down-for-the-count hits came later, when Peter was getting sloppy from fatigue and couldn’t dodge so well. Chalk it up to a buggy spider sense, he thought hazily. 

Dimly, he was aware of being lifted by the back of his costume, dangling in the air like a newborn kitten. Peter coughed, wetness splattering at his lips. His teeth had slashed the flat edge of his tongue during the fall. The blood flooded his mouth and it was sputtering into his mask when he coughed, putting a wet, acrid patch there that soaked out to his cheeks and drizzled down his neck. 

Venom cradled him against his chest. Peter could feel the chilly offshoots of the suit latching onto him, and swore he heard them sizzle. His feet were limp and far from the ground, and his arms hung useless at his sides. Fever heat pushed shivers through him. Peter couldn’t stop coughing. There was a rumble, like a purr, that he could feel vibrating against his chest. Peter blinked his way back to half vision, the world still shrouded in cotton but not enough to disguise the pink, snakelike thing spilling out from between Venom’s teeth. It was thick and wet, and it coiled slowly around his neck, enveloping it in full before the tip was swiping over the bloody mess at the front of his mask. 

It slid off and left behind a thick layer of saliva, every inch passing over the blood spot until it had feathered out into his cheek and lost its iron tang. Peter saw a flash of white teeth before they scraped over his cheek, cutting the cloth and just barely nicking his skin. The newly torn pieces curled away and left his cheek bare. Venom snagged and ripped at them with his teeth, cracking a lens as he savaged the mask and yanked it off like an angry pit bull, shaking his head and hissing to toss the thing to the ground. Peter spat more blood and felt warmth return to him, swirling into his cheeks and pulsing down his chest. 

That long pink tongue swept the new blood off his chin and then pushed at his lips, pushed past his teeth, humongous and slimy and tasting like hot iron. Spotty and dim, coherency flickered its way through the haze and brought with it the ominous notion that he wasn’t about to be eaten. Peter’s spider senses were screaming but his body was boiling. Life returned to his limbs as he began to choke on the intrusion. Venom kept pushing more in. More tendrils split away from the suit and snagged onto Peter’s legs and arms, his waist, and they stretched like rubber as he began to kick and claw for air. A few broke, but more sprung up, their icy touch burning on Peter’s skin as it sweltered.

The tongue peeled back and the black sunk away from Venom’s face. His eyes, though rounded and covered with lids again were still paper white, his teeth sharp, and there was an oily frame from the tendrils clinging around the borders of his jaw and forehead and curling under his cheekbones, but it was less monster and more Eddie. Venom dipped down and kissed Peter on the mouth as much a human as he could manage, voracious and deep. The points of his fangs gave shallow cuts to his lips. Peter screamed into his mouth. 

The antidote had stopped working.

Adrenaline hit him like a bolt of lightning. With jagged fits and starts, he wrestled an arm free and clocked Venom in the eye, then the throat, and worked enough of his left leg loose to take a crack at his kneecaps. Venom howled and dropped him, the suit reforming over his face and bubbling around him to fix the damage, tentacles swarming and swinging over every inch of him. Peter waited not one moment. He spat out the last dregs of the blood and made a break for it. He whipped off a web and sailed into the air, bruises screaming at the abuse and tongue swelling into a thick and spongy deadweight.

Except he saw a black line, an exact copy of his own webbing, splatter against the same building he had hoisted himself to. “ _ **PARKEEERRR!**_ ”

Venom careened into the building before Peter had even finished his swing, crouching like a cricket and waiting. Peter fired off a web at another building and nearly broke his neck with the jolt of the last second change, but even then his spider senses roared to maddening levels. He looked back just in time to see Venom jumping – not webswinging, _jumping_ – and the next thing he knew he was battered out of the air and down towards the pavement. 

The fall was murder on his back, his limbs still trailing comically in the air like party streamers. Venom landed directly over top of him, denting the pavement. A car screeched on the breaks as Venom hissed at it and held out his hand to halt it. The metal crunched around it like cardboard, the sound ringing thunderously in Peter’s ears. Peter kicked upwards, hitting Venom in the middle. The black mass of monster was jolted just high enough in the air that Peter could roll out, attempt to scramble onto his feet from all fours. Venom snagged him by the legs and jerked him backwards, Peter’s rear colliding with his pelvis. An eruption of heat blossomed from his chest out, but it had the banshee spider senses to contest with. Peter yelped and elbowed, then punched his way out when he had emerged enough from under Venom to do so.

Shrieks and blazing car horns and the collision of car bumpers and hoods had them at the eye of a hurricane. Everything was chaos to Peter, the spider sense beating all sound dull and tinny as it throbbed in his eardrums. 

Yet even so, dimly, he was aware that one woman was running towards them. She was beautiful – even that much stuck through the haze – maybe Latino. Older. Her arms were spread wide as she raced forward. Behind her was a small black boy who was screaming at her to come back, a foreboding sense of abandonment about the scene, but she still gunned for Peter and Venom. 

The upset brought Venom’s attention to a pinpoint focus. The beast behind him was drawing upright and clicking its teeth together in displeasure. Peter was frozen where he crouched as he saw the whites of her eyes, her hands splayed and stretched in his direction, as if to scoop him up from the pavement and whisk him away. She cried out to him, voice cracking, “NO! STOP!”

“MOM!” The kid hollered, skittering closer. He was trembling behind a car that had wrapped its hood around a streetlamp, the driver long since fled. He nearly fell to his knees trying to come around closer, begging. “GET AWAY!”

Venom bore down like a wildcat. She was ripped off the ground in no more than a blink and swarmed with inky offshoots, Venom drawing his jaws open and swilling his tongue around her neck. The boy was shrieking louder still and Peter’s head was throbbing with the palpitation of machine gun fire but he still launched upwards, spinning a kick at the side of Venom’s head. He dropped the woman, stringy bits of the suit still clinging to her skirt and tearing her nylons. Peter caught her as they both fell and he rolled on the ground. If she had broken or bruised on the landing he didn’t know, he was already swinging another hit to the monster’s gut. She clawed at his legs and coughed through her begging.

“Baby, no! Get out of here!” 

“You first!” Peter barked back. He bit his tongue all over again and spat bright red blood on the pavement. He dashed a few paces to the left and hefted an abandoned Buick, and flung it solidly at Venom. He went flying and the glass of the café opposite disintegrated as several tons of man and automobile blew through it.

The woman was on Peter suddenly, coiling her arms around him and sobbing into his hair. “No no no, not my boy!”

“ _Lady!_ What is your damage?!” He weaseled away but she reached for him again. Her eyes were still wide and rolling down to him like a spooked horse. She snagged him by a scrape on his costume which ripped further as Peter struggled to fend her off.

Her real son barreled into her from behind and yanked at her waist. “Mom! Stop! Please stop, we have to go! We’re going to die!”

She screamed again and nearly took Peter’s eye out trying to grab him. “Not without my boy!”

“I’m not your—“ Peter ducked another swipe and she wailed, a veritable waterfall running down each cheek, and Peter knew then something had to be wrong. She was ignoring her kid completely and calling him baby, her boy, and her eyes were like something out of the Exorcist.

Only one solution came to mind. He hated himself the very second his open palm battered her at the cheek. She nearly keeled over but the boy at her waist had gone rigid and held her fast. He gaped helplessly at Peter.

It dawned on him what a mess he must look. The mask was gone and there were odd, angry stripes around his mouth from where Venom had cut him with his teeth. The webs on his neck and chest were stained a darker red than the rest, and more blood dribbled in thin lines out of his mouth from his twice cut tongue. Add that to how he had just slapped his mom and Peter must have looked absolutely psychotic. “Spider-Man?” the boy asked in a quavering tone, even more diminutive up close than he had been crouching behind the car.

The woman rose, wavering, her hand at her cheek but she was blinking, seeing the disaster around them and moving with purpose. Her body quaked and her hands patted the arms around her until she could discern who was clutching her so fast. She tugged her son into her body tighter, gasping, and drew away from Peter. “Miles? Oh god, baby, are you hurt?” She inspected him, holding him at arm’s length and trembling from shoulder to fingertips, but when she found nothing amiss and he murmured that he was fine, her gaze locked back on Peter. She was hypnotized by the sight of him, but she wasn’t reaching for him anymore. It was the cautious kind of shock and awe he was used to. “Oh, Lord, you’re really…really small.” Her voice was faint but steady.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, you were just…You need to go,” Peter spluttered. He pushed at both of their shoulders and fought fainting from the continued assault in his head. “Now now now.”

“You’re Spider-Man?” she said thinly. Peter could swear it was her heartbeat drumming at his ears. She touched her mouth, agape. Her eyes weren’t on his, but at the carnage of his face, his suit. “How old are…oh honey, you are coming with us. You need to be in a hospital.”

“ _Mom!_ ” urged the boy. 

“Get out.” Peter said.

She shook her head and held out a trembling hand. “We should go. You too. Spider-Man, you come with us. You’re hurt.”

“Mom, it tried to eat you! Are _you_ okay?” 

Peter waved his arms. “GUYS, SERIOUSLY! EXUENT STAGE LEFT!”

Then the boy’s attention snapped to something over Peter’s shoulder. He shrieked wordlessly, with animal fear, pointing as broad fingers tipped in talons curled around Peter’s sides, the jagged points piercing his belly like wasps.

Venom hefted Peter from the ground with the double grip. Just as he was getting the impression that this was what the last moments of a Big Mac felt like, Venom carved a crescent moon slash on each side of his shoulder as he bit down, a keening, supernatural growl rattling Peter’s bones.

The boy kept screaming and his mother lost all reason. She nearly toppled in fright, knees failing as her neck craned to compensate for the eight foot terror with its teeth buried in Peter’s skin. She seized her son to her chest, wild and speechless. Peter was screaming himself, new blood painting the blue of his sleeve a sinister purple. 

Venom dropped him from jaw and grip alike and Peter bounced on the unforgiving concrete. Venom crouched over him like a lion over a kill and slapped the pavement, cracking it under his hand and roared at the pair, that alien screech that pierced the ears so sharply Peter swore they might all go deaf.

Peter pushed himself over, rolling so that he could see them and squeezing at the gashes left behind by Venom’s teeth, as if he might keep the blood in with nothing more than one hand and a prayer. “ _RUN!_ ”

They obeyed at last. The boy was beside himself, crying out for him as his mother lifted him to her chest and sprinted away, his legs twining around her middle like a child much smaller and younger than he truly was.

Peter used the distraction. It was short lived, Venom watching the pair solely to make certain they were gone for good, but it was enough time to jut his foot into Venom’s gut, then the other. He was on his back and kicking rapid fire into him like a rabbit on its last resort of defense. The thing made a hideous sound, a squelching in its throat, and was battered back a few paces against its will. Peter launched upright and spun away, dodging another clawed swipe that might have sliced off an arm, or left him bleeding out from four slick cuts to his side. Peter bolted on foot, web at the ready. He fired again and shot upwards into the sky. Unsurprisingly, Venom was a thin two yards behind in no time at all. 

Peter shot web after web in constant streams, quickly convinced he was circling Manhattan in its entirety with how fast and how far he had gone. His muscles were groaning under the strain and the bite was a vicious handicap to contend with, but Venom kept such a close tail that there was not a moment of reprieve to be had. The Baxter Building was close. He knew that Reed, in all his (well founded) paranoia, had installed the kinds of precautions that high fliers and wall crawlers loathed to find: the outer walls were rigged with electrical fields. The suit did not fare so well with electricity. It was his best chance at ditching Venom in the lingering daylight without having to get close again. Peter sprang over the roof of a flat topped sky scraper, casting another line for the next building over and thanking the heavens that he could see the Baxter Building’s tip just shy of five blocks away.

He had been at this sort of gig for long enough by now that the startling snag at his back and the sudden jerk in the opposite direction should not have come as a surprise, but he still gasped, still watched with horror as the Baxter Building shrunk cruelly out of view. The black webline lurched Peter backwards into Venom’s chest, his gorilla-esque arm locking around his middle and Venom dove down for the long stretch of alley below.

They landed with an ugly thud and Peter was smashed against the ground. His back would be one united bruise, the blow smarting from neck to sacrum and spanning both ribs. He kicked out regardless and caught Venom in the neck. With deft panic he rolled out to the side and was on the verge of pushing upright when his ankle was seized and the ground slipped out from under him. Venom swung him into the wall like an old rag, bricks crumbling under the blow and his suit ripping, blood from scrapes mixing with brick dust and grime, then whirled him high in the air and hammered him into the ground. The pavement was unforgiving and fissured underneath him. Something cracked inside Peter too, his forearm taking the brunt of the blow and springing wild with sharp, stabbing pain on impact. He sobbed out loud at the abrupt wash of agony. The bone might have been broken. 

Venom took this as an opportunity to crouch low and lick Peter from navel to neck. The fresh cuts and scrapes from the brick were flooding his suit, but Venom lapped up the blood with perverse appetite. With his good hand Peter slapped the tongue away and was rewarded with a smack of his own across his ear. For the second time that day his vision sparked over with white and threatened to cut out completely, but now his ears rattled and clanged for equal attention and damage. He felt claws scraping under the waist of his pants. Venom pinned his chest down and ripped the pants up and apart, leaving the legs to dangle uselessly off his knees and his pelvis exposed. 

“NO!” Peter screamed, writhing and battering away at the hand cementing his chest to the ground, his legs flailing. Venom slammed his palm over Peter’s mouth, giving his skull an awful jolt. The spider sense was unbearable, like electrocution, like fire. It was killing him.

“ _ **Be…stiiiill…**_ ”

Speech was a strain on Venom, it was obvious. But when he managed to squeeze out a word or two, it was in a chilling, doubled tone. Two voices in one, rumbling, deep and devilish and shaking Peter to the bone. It belonged in films, with millions of dollars poured into mixing and manipulating sounds to produce unearthly strains, not poured out into his ears in a starkly real alley.

Peter whimpered and shuddered under the hand, and continued to do so once it lifted. He wasn’t entirely sure what his body was doing any longer. His eyes were rolling upward and his skin flashed wicked hot. The blaring spider senses were maniacally painful, consuming every other instinct and thought. He didn’t notice that his rear was lifted high in the air until his leg stuttered into an uncontrollable twitch and his heel was skidding in solitude on the pavement. Venom was groping him, sliding a thick finger in his cleft, the claw seemingly retracted after giving him a spiteful scratch at the tailbone. He licked Peter’s thigh and rubbed the base of his cock with his thumb. His tongue swilled around it next, and Peter was left gasping. The swell of heat came upon him in a bubble burst, for a moment overpowering the pain of his bruises and bites and bones and even the belligerent rattling in his skull, and all he could comprehend was the intoxicating slide of that tongue. Slick and wet and all encompassing, coiled around his member like a snake and slipping free in slow succession. 

An inelegant burble escaped him. Peter wriggled and stuck his good hand to the pavement underneath him. Venom had abandoned his cock but pulled him in closer, letting his rear nestle on his thighs as he tore through the top, ripped off the sleeves and the gloves, running his claws along Peter’s belly and ribs and lapping up the half-dried drips from the bite. 

The proximity and the sudden sting of new attention to a fresh wound broke his reverie. The shriek of his spider senses made him seize. A body wide spasm overtook him, then he was screaming and beating on Venom as best as he could with only one arm and his legs sprawled wide around his captor’s hips. Venom hissed bitterly and croaked a low warning, “ _ **Parkeerrrr!**_ ”

But Peter didn’t stop. He struck at the mouth and his knuckles smarted as they cracked a tooth there. Venom snarled and slammed him to the ground again, but this time there was a massive hand encompassing his neck, squeezing and immovable as stone. Air trickled out of Peter and he gasped, ran his feet up and down the pavement, batted at the hand and at whatever of Venom he could reach, but he could not stop the alarm, the way his whole face puckered and his body went tight, how his spider senses were wailing louder than ever.

He had to stop. Death crouched on the peripherals, dark and numb, and Peter couldn’t summon the strength to fight anymore. When the threat was real, when it was creeping up slowly and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see anything but the massive monster crouching over him or feel anything but the crushing force around his throat, Peter found that he did not want to die. Not to stop the pain that rattled through his every nerve. Not even to stop the humiliation.

Wriggling wormlike, the heat and sparks came to him again. Peter twitched. His only option was to not fight. Let it come, let the quivering need sweep down his spine and invade him. Stop resisting. He let his body go limp and wheezed as the hand at his throat retracted. It pulled at his legs instead, pushing them high and wide as Peter was sprawled on his back. He felt Venom’s member press against his rear, as if he had been waiting for permission this whole time. 

Peter’s legs were being draped around Venom’s shoulders. For a mad moment he imagined the real man underneath the suit in its place, Eddie Brock: scruffy, a little gaunt, but still the struggling collegiate he’d been when Peter sought him out last year. Espousing lazy clichés and carting him and Gwen around in his car. That man was gone. Humanity was the last thing that came to mind looking at the bubbling black mass, the bear-like size and brutality, the listless white eye spots with no discernible edge or pupil. 

Peter dragged his good arm over his eyes to cut out that alien stare, his nose sheltered in the crook of his elbow. Oxygen was coming back into him through fits, the new bruises pounding with every inhale and violent cough. Venom waited, poised perfectly still over top of him until Peter could calm down enough to simply breathe. Then he peeled the arm away from his face, paying no mind to the way Peter squirmed or latched his eyes shut, and bent further. The tongue dropped loose from his mouth and circled Peter’s head from under the jaw to around the ears, over his eyelids and then his lips. Only after thoroughly slathering Peter’s face with his spit did Venom push in.

Peter had to bite his lip to keep the sharp scream inside. Venom was massive. Even if it was slow going, even if the suit made it all strangely slick, there was no forgiveness to be had in the sheer size of the thing. Peter wanted to wriggle out but could not, bent clear in half underneath the beast. Had anyone been looking at them they might not realize there was a person under Venom at all.

It was a small measure of mercy that the ecstasy hit soon after. It smoothed him over like finger tips ghosting through his hair, effervescent and tingling as it dripped from his scalp down. It mitigated the agony, if not wholly then hypnotically. His spider senses throbbed mercilessly at Venom’s closeness, he could hear it make the blood drum in his ears but the sickly need was numbing it. His nerves were shot through and only the pressure remained. It was a Novocain state. Every ounce of skin felt loose and rubbery as the sensations combated in him. He was aware of nothing, eyes glazed as they lay open and unseeing.

Venom descended. Peter’s toes brushed the ground above his shoulders. With the length of it Peter could not take Venom in whole, but he clearly thought that was no reason not to try. With little warning, he yanked back and rammed into Peter. Peter didn’t make a sound. If possible his eyes widened just a little more, owlish, and his mouth parted. Venom slammed in again and he gaped even more. The force of the thrusts were raking him across the pavement, gravel and irregularities scraping him red.

After the first few pushes Venom pressed down on him, closing Peter’s thighs to his chest and trapping his toes on the pavement above his head, and rocked into him. There was no less gusto in the act, the change seemed more a measure of control. Peter wasn’t skidding on the ground anymore, but simply bobbing with each thrust in time with Venom. The air was tight between them and Peter had to focus to breathe, sucking in with sickly rattles and choking on whimpers and moans. Venom was entirely mute and spoke more in power and weight and the gargantuan hand pressing into Peter’s wrist, drawing and pinning it to the side where it could not interfere with a well aimed punch. 

Peter had no plans for anything of the sort. His wounded arm was useless, both from the bite on his shoulder and the abusive stabbing pains from the break; and that was his only free limb still trailing out from under Venom. With plodding reluctance slivers of thought returned to him, still numb and blissful everywhere save for the tiny whispers of relax, relax, it’ll feel good soon, it always does. 

And of course it did. Late, almost uncharacteristically so, but it was a difference of day and night once the change hit, giving him red blooms in his cheeks and a euphoria that birthed in his belly and shot to his groin, then burst into tingles from his middle to his fingers and toes. 

He was groaning salaciously. Venom had released his arm and he clung to him in mindless desperation, sticking his palm to the shoulder blade. Peter’s head was tossed to the side while he panted deeply. Slick offshoots of the suit latched onto him even now, when Venom made no move to consume him. He engulfed him by other means. He nuzzled his smooth, nose-less face against Peter’s hair and cheek, the teeth scraping only slightly where the folds of his ear were caught errant.

After some time, rutting hard into the ground seemed to lose its appeal and Venom dragged them both back, hefting Peter upright as he drew into a sit and letting his legs fall free to the side. The tips of his claws put dotted lines into his rear, five points that arched up and over his hips to where the thumbs pricked at him in the front. They drew blood when he lifted Peter and shoved him back down, as near to the base of his cock as he could get. Peter hollered and squirmed, and whimpered when his useless arm knocked too hard against Venom’s leg and pulled it in, clutching it protectively. The shock didn’t stop the addictive spasms of ecstasy, but he cradled it close and hung his head low, his forehead rubbing Venom’s collar bone as he was manhandled into moving up and down with a irate vigor. His rear had already gone sore. Venom used him with no pretence or precaution: his grip was too tight, he pushed Peter too fast and too hard, as if forgetting there was a human attached to those hips at all, plunging into him with animal brutality. Bits of the suit hooked into Peter’s face and his legs where they lay over Venom’s thighs, cold to his sweltering hot skin, and he faintly thought that he might end up being sucked inside of the suit, nothing more than a meal after all.

A warped bang shook them both, and Peter jolted to attention as Venom shrieked under the brunt of the shot. Another followed, and Peter was abruptly dropped back on the cold pavement, free at last. 

He could hear Venom’s growl, his inhuman screech of fury, and he could hear human voices. Peter didn’t rise. He coiled around his wounded arm and covered his head, curling himself into the tightest possible ball. His spider senses recovered and assailed him anew. The heat was gone. All traces of satisfaction evaporated, and though his cock was still stiff it was fading fast. He huddled on the ground and prayed that whoever was shooting at Venom wasn’t going to shoot him too.

There was a bang and a crash and the brick wall to the right had been shattered, plaster and severed rubble spraying over Peter and stinging in his open cuts and scrapes, the bite at his shoulder. He found his wits. They rushed back into him then and swelled him with the urge to run. He was naked, he was injured, but he had to go. 

Venom was roaring again and there were more shots, but another bang sounded and the fight seemed to transfer back out to the street, car horns blaring and the ruckus of mass property damage just a little more distant than before. Peter struggled upright, furiously rubbing his eyes when speckles of plaster invaded them. A voice from behind, unfamiliar, shouted. “There’s a kid!”

“That’s not just a kid.” came a woman’s voice. Peter freed his eyes from the debris and looked over his shoulder to see a pair of black clad soldiers. Not S.H.I.E.L.D. The one furthest from him was a woman with stunning silver hair.

He remembered her. Silver Sable. And she clearly remembered him, raising a pointed brow and looking over the bloodied, naked mess that was Peter Parker. The only clothes he had left were the boots and his webshooters, the rest lay in tatters over the ground. His mask was probably lying in a gutter near Central Park. If he were in any less fear for his life, he might have been mortified.

The second, a man whose gun was trained on Peter and whose face was obscured by his mask, cocked his head and his weapon. “Christ! You’re kidding me. We taking him in?”

“We’re here for Brock.” The sounds of chaos continued behind them, and Peter even saw Venom leap past the gap leading into the alley, nothing more than a roaring black streak, and heard a human scream and gunfire. 

“But the payday’s gotta be insane on this guy. Didn’t the Kingpin-”

Peter’s heart leaped into his throat. He didn’t think twice. He swung around his good arm and shot the gun impotent with a well placed web. Silver Sable fired at him then, hollering, “Simmer down, Junior!” 

It was murder to move, but he did. Peter dodged, flinging himself haphazardly into the air and probably flashing the pair in the process, judging from the sudden jerk back from the masked man. Silver Sable only aimed her gun again. Peter fired another web just as he landed in a crouch, hitting her gun, then slammed them both in the face with a glob of webbing apiece. Behind him there was only a dead end and a high rise, and Peter’s arm was killing him. His legs were killing him, his neck was killing him, and he was starting to shake now that the heat spell had drained out, his mind strangely blank. So without thinking, he rocketed out into the street on foot while the pair struggled with his webbing, snagging the largest tatter of his shirt to hold to his groin on his way. 

Venom had already made a proper ruckus of things, and Silver Sable’s crew was not helping. Police cars were pulling up, and there was a terrified ring of onlookers past the furthest stretch of cars both parked and totaled, traffic on hold for the spectacle. No one noticed Peter, and he darted sharply to the left, leaping into a thin restaurant patio and ducking behind a downed table umbrella. It was already torn in a large strip. Peter considered it for a moment, then ripped it off and ditched the scrap from his suit. He kicked off his boots, but couldn’t bring himself to part with the webshooters. Less people would recognize them, he reasoned, than they would the red webbing on the suit scrap or the boots. A stray shot punctured a window above him and Peter bolted again, out in the open. 

His spider senses were swelling again, Venom close but too focused on taking down the mercenaries blasting him with all they had. The cumulative pressure and pain and panic sent him careening into a stucco wall, pressing his head into it and letting his bad arm flop at his side while the other clutched the umbrella rag for dignity. He was close to the crowd, but no one even noticed he was there. Shots came again and Peter ducked, a tight yelp escaping him as he forced himself to crawl and escape the stray gunfire again. 

His head knocked against the front end of a sleek black Volkswagen before he realized he was on the fringes of the scene. Peter peeled away from the wall, slapping his good hand on the hood of the car and hoisting himself upright, his legs losing their solidity and his energy zapped clean. The pounding headache wasn’t leaving. He looked up, and found Betty Brant at the opposite end of the car.

She was tucked into the open door with a camcorder directed at the fight, propping herself up higher by standing on the floor of her car and steadying herself with a grip on the roof. The camcorder was glued to her eye and her teeth were gritted, her face pale with fright but she remained utterly still. 

“Betty?” Peter rasped.

It was a slow turn, as if she didn’t quite believe anyone had called her name in the first place, but she spotted him clinging to the hood of her car. Her eyes went wide. 

Then they rolled back, her mouth gaping open, and Peter thought she might faint. The camcorder dropped from her hands. But she didn’t follow it – instead her eyes snapped back on him and she was suddenly tearing up, clutching a hand to her heart. In a flash she was on him, having rounded the car and scooping him up into her arms. 

Exactly how the Latino woman had panicked over him.

“Oh god come here, come here, I’ve got you babe, it’s okay.” She was babbling, shaking in time with him, pressing her cheek into his hair as she tried to heft him up with a bear hug around his ribs. Peter, though stunned, did his best to help, dragging his feet until they came properly underneath him. She reached behind herself for the passenger door and coerced him inside. Betty clutched at his face and wiped at the blood stains with trembling fingers, her lip wobbling. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ve got you.”

“Betty?” Peter pressed, grabbing her by the wrist. The cloth was only barely draped over his lap. “Betty, are you – Betty, are you listening to me?”

“I’ve got you,” she insisted, patting his cheeks with a sniffle and reaching under the seat. She pulled out a blanket, fleecy plaid in green and navy, and tucked it over and around him in like a child in bed. 

“Betty!” Peter hissed, but she pressed a kiss to his forehead and then shut the door. She reappeared in the driver’s seat and furiously started the engine. Peter stared at her, hazy in his thoughts but still sharply aware that Betty Brant would never in her life cry and kiss him and call him babe, no matter how badly beaten he was.

From outside the car Venom was shrieking, and had latched onto an unsuspecting police officer, sucking him in. Peter’s heart thudded madly, his spider senses shrieked in sympathy. He ought to be out there. He ought to do something, battered and bare as he was. Venom was his fault, his responsibility. 

But Betty was already pulling the car away, pushing the pedal to the floor and jetting out of the scene as if someone was giving chase.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The further they got from the chaos, the more Betty seemed to come to herself. She started breathing in deep, no longer pounding out air to the beat of a jackhammer, her lips pressed hard together and her eyes regained a razor sharp focus. She cast glances at him, and though concern was there it was less of the motherly variety and more of the general perplexity at finding a naked and beaten boy in the passenger seat of her car. He was grateful. He didn’t have it in him to smack another woman today, and he didn’t want to think about why he had to do so in the first place.

Two of them. Two women who had gone to pieces over him and who shouldn’t in their right minds be giving him the time of day. Had the antidote made him worse? Made whatever it was mutate? Was this the start of getting molested by women, just the same as Jessica?

Peter’s head was free of panging, Venom long out of proximity now, but that only left room for the rest of the damage to clamor for his attention. For most of the ride he kept his eyes shut, not daring to disturb the form of his blanket cocoon. Everything was pain and so he stayed as still as possible and winced when turns and stops jostled him.

“So how did…” Betty started, then halted. She hit the brakes at a stoplight. “Shit. My camera.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Two hundred freaking dollars down the drain.” He could feel her eyes on him. Peter opened his own by a sliver and caught her staring, raking her gaze uneasily up and down his body. “I hope you have health insurance.”

“I can’t go to a hospital.”

“What?” she barked. “Have you looked in a mirror? Oh god, you don’t have a concussion do you?”

“Betty, I’m not going to a hospital. Just…” Peter grimaced. “Take me home.”

“Don’t you live in Queens? I am not driving all the way out to Queens. You’re going to bleed out before we get there.”

He seethed quietly. This was going to be a problem. “I won’t bleed out. Betty, I am begging you. Do not take me to a hospital.”

Betty slapped the wheel, livid. Her voice stayed unnaturally even, no matter how fervent her ranting got. “What the hell is wrong with you? Is this some kind of – you’re effing naked, you’re bleeding out of _everywhere_ – what were you doing down there, dumbass? Was this a Spider-Man thing? Were you trying to take pictures for Jameson or something?”

“Take me to your place then, and call my Aunt.” Peter turned his head as best as he could, the phantom of Venom’s chokehold gone purple and black already in a wide collar around his neck, and shot her his best pleading eyes. He doubted their effectiveness, when he was still red and bruised and crusty with blood old and new. “A parking lot. Anything. Please. They won’t get it.”

“This is New York. I bet the hospitals are dealing with mutant crap every other day.” She squinted and leaned forward. They were on a block Peter knew all too well. By his estimation she was about five minutes from getting her way and hauling him forcibly into New York Downtown Hospital. 

Peter’s eyes went wide and he snapped his good arm out, grabbing her wrist at the wheel. “Betty, I am not kidding you—“

“What are you doing?!” She snatched his wrist right back.

_Thwip!_

With that unexpected mechanical hiss, the driver side window was splattered with webbing. Peter went awash with ice. His webshooters were still on. She had hit the trigger.

And Betty, who was as sharp as a tack on the best of days, went horrifically quiet. She had stopped the car, even though there were honking motorists behind her. Her eyes followed the line from the window to where it was birthed at his wrist, to the metal encircling the skin there. Too big, too bulky and too odd to be a bracelet or a cuff. She met his eyes last of all.

“…Betty…”

She said nothing. The cars outside swerved around them and one man screamed at them and flipped the bird. Her nose wrinkled at the gesture and suddenly she was looking anywhere but Peter. Throat working but her mouth sewn shut, she found the end of the harrowing pause and hit the gas once more. She took a sharp turn and they were on another street. No longer headed to the hospital.

Peter retreated. He released the web and it fell limply into her lap. Betty twitched and hurriedly brushed it off. Both of them set their eyes to the road. Peter clenched his eyes shut and thudded his head on the back of his seat. He wished desperately that he could disappear. Sneak off to Maui and never be heard from ever again.

They pulled into an apartment complex parkade not long after. Betty killed the engine. “You know,” she said thickly, “This explains…so, so much.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not…” She pressed her palms into her eyes. “God, and my fucking camera gone forever.”

“You’re not going to tell this to anyone.” Peter rasped. Then, as a measure of truce, he added another, “Please?”

Betty clicked her tongue. She seemed to consider the notion, taking a sweet pause before shaking her head. “Eff me. Fifteen years old and skulking around, peddling pictures of yourself to a paper that rips you a new one every week. Kid, no one would believe me. And you’re dying in my passenger seat, that’s kind of a bigger concern right now.”

She helped him out of the car, one arm around his should while he clung to her for dear life and prayed the blanket wouldn’t drop. They made for the elevator and Betty hit a button for the twenty second floor, and let him lean bonelessly against her for the whole ride up.

He was utterly silent as Betty hobbled him out of the elevator. His legs were as sturdy as wet noodles and his skin was paper white. He stared at his feet and hugged her blanket around him tighter as she held onto his shoulders in a one armed lasso and fumbled for her keys with the other. She swore, suffering a narrow miss of dropping them on the carpet, and took a furtive look around the hallway as she pushed them inside.

“Down on the couch,” she ordered, already dragging him over. Peter let himself topple over on his good side there, clutching at his bad shoulder, already coiling up like a pill bug as he focused all his attention to the dulled terra cotta wood of her floor. “Oh, shitcakes. Okay, first aid, where did I put you my oft neglected companion…”

Peter flicked his gaze to her figure in a mirror, hanging on a wall space and reflecting her trek down a short hall. His vision swam. His head pulsated with something sickly, the swill of his own blood raucously loud and visceral. When Betty came out he was half off the couch, pressing his forehead into the floor and encircling it with his only working arm.

“Peter?!” 

The clopping sound of her shoes was intolerable. He was hoisted upright again and felt he might vomit, the turn making him nauseous. Dizzy. He felt her peel the blanket open as much as modesty would allow and heard her strangled whimper at the bite, at the bruises and the five point slashes drawn by Eddie’s claws. 

“Oh, fuck me. Peter, please. Peter, are you awake?” His eyes had drifted closed and his mouth lay open, but he nodded with the least amount of effort possible. Betty took heart in it, pressing a cool hand to his forehead. “Can I at least call up a doctor pal? I know a guy.”

“No,” he groaned.

“Yes! Kid, you’re a mess, I can’t fix you by myself.” Though she was trying. He could hear the click of the first aid box opening and the rustling of several objects. He hissed bitterly as she dribbled alcohol along the bite wound on his shoulder, Betty mimicking the sound in distaste and murmuring a hasty apology. “Just because I was one of two people in the office who performed decently with that first aid course does not mean I’m capable of this. Don't you have some little helper by now? Someone to patch up Spidey?”

At the moment, Peter wanted nothing more than to cease all sound. Cease being awake, just drift off and not think or feel or have to listen to that burble in his belly that threatened to push up everything he had eaten since yesterday. But even in this state, he knew what a luxury that would be. “Just do whatever you can. Call my Aunt.”

Aunt May could at least get a hold of S.H.I.E.L.D. If he had his own stuff with him he could have done it himself, but he had unwisely left it behind. With the advent of cell phones no one in his generation bothered to memorize phone numbers anymore either, so Peter was unsure of how to contact anyone other than his Aunt or MJ or 911. The latter was, as discussed before, not an option.

“Peter? So that mutant thing was…You were fighting it right?” She stopped, as if something had just occurred to her or caught her eye. With gentle discretion she patted the blanket, at the edge of his hip. Peter winced and opened his eyes again when she strayed into the wounds and Betty pulled back instantly. She checked her fingers and rubbed them together. The blood had begun to clot and stuck to the fabric where Eddie’s claws had pricked and gouged him, holding his hips in place. “Peter,” she said slowly, her gaze hard on the bloodied spots on his hips before it raked upwards, taking census of each telltale scrape over his lips. “did that mutant—”

“Don’t,” he warned her. “Don’t say a word.”

He could hear her breathing now, deliberately slow, yoga born and ineffective. “Good _god,_ kid.” She hurried with the rest of the bandages, spritzing the alcohol and rubbing out the grime with a wet cloth. Her voice drew tight, cinched like the cords in her throat were set in a vice. “It wasn’t just a fight, was it?”

He grimaced. “Stop it.”

Thankfully, she did. She worked with the same vivacity she took to her typing whenever she had an article that got her fired up, tackling the shallow cuts from Venom’s teeth next. Peter wriggled under her ministrations. While he was used to getting patched up, alcohol never stopped being bee-sting sharp and irritating. 

It was some time before she bothered to speak again, when his shoulder was well padded with antibiotic creams and fresh cotton. “I fell asleep at my friend’s place one time in college. We’d had a party. I used to drink like the Irish, every chance I got. It was a pretty bad night for it so he let me sleep in his room, before I keeled over in a gutter trying to walk home. When I woke up later his roommate was on top of me.” Betty halted her work, her hand resting on Peter’s. She gave him a little squeeze, and he could hear a block in her voice, thinning the sound even as she dragged it out with steadfast force. “And college boys are human shit stains, so of course everyone called me a drunk slut the moment I opened my mouth and no one believed me. So I know how it is. No one needs to know anything. Any of this. Not from me.”

Peter let his eyes drift open then. She was looking back at him, face drawn not in sorrow or pity, but grim solidarity. It was hard to imagine a young Betty Brant. She fit too squarely into the peg of a self assured adult, a viper of a woman with a latte in hand and a million opinions, and not one care to give whether you agreed or not. Even now her eyes shone with steely hardness rather than any trace of softness. Perfectly armored. 

With a cold shiver Peter returned the squeeze of her hand, and said plainly, “I’m sorry too, Betty.”

She thinned her lips and let go. The rest of his torso was tended to, and she set his arm as best as she could with the limited supplies. A bookend served as a makeshift splint. “Do you need me to do the rest of you? Would you be okay with that?” She gestured at the lower half of him. Peter meekly shook his head no and muttered that he could try himself. He blinked up at her wearily as she rose, sliding the first aid kit onto the edge of the coffee table for him and trotted out of view.

He could only use one hand now, so it would be difficult. But Peter managed, whimpering to sit upright and tackling the bloody spots as best as he could. Betty did not have an awe-inspiring medical arsenal, so some of the smaller scrapes went uncovered as the bandage stock grew thin, but he made sure to put extra medication on everything and wipe himself as clean as he could get. 

After some time Betty called out to ask if he was decent and resurfaced when she got a yes. There was a folded set of clothes in her arms. “They’re going to be too big for you, but my boyfriend left some of his stuff here. Take it.”

He shrugged into the clothes after Betty trotted into the kitchen, emerging when he was dressed with a cup of coffee which she insisted he would drink (she asserted it was because she hated tea and didn’t have any, not even for entertaining guests) and left him sugar and cream. She fetched him more blankets and asked for his Aunt’s phone number. She was a whirlwind, here and there, grabbing this and that at tugging her hair and pressing her knuckles hard against her lips so that they stayed white, just for a second, when she whipped her hand away and pushed another pillow under Peter’s head.

All of it was so exhausting that Peter finished maybe a third of the coffee and sleepily answered her questions before succumbing, dropping off to darkness while bundled in four fleecy blankets, the old bloodied one excommunicated to the floor in a heap.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When he woke again the apartment was shrouded with inky black shadows. It was late, that much was clear. Bleary as he was and sluggish to think, Peter found that he was not altogether surprised to see the imposing silhouette of Nick Fury standing over him.

“Where’s Betty?” he mumbled.

“Sleeping.” Nick said quietly. “I had to put her out.”

Peter rubbed his face. He stretched his legs and hissed at the stings and throbs. The bruises had swollen, and the cuts still felt fresh. But he made himself sit up, taking concessions where his sore spots were concerned and clutching the blankets around his shoulders.“Why didn’t you just pick me up and go?”

Nick took a pause. Though he was largely stoic the air around him was fraught with something unspoken. “You were already waking up.”

“And Venom?”

“M.I.A. But we have secured the mercenary team trying to capture him.” Nick paused again, setting up an even graver continuation. “We had trouble tracking you until we got word of the scuffle with Sable. Brant’s camera was still at the scene and witnesses saw you leave.” He broke his stare for the moment, seemingly more interested in the Spartan décor. “We thought you were just swinging around for kicks.”

Peter had to swallow down a lump in his throat. “I kind of was. In a sense.” It was his own fault. If he hadn’t let his temper get the best of him, he could have gone home. Done his homework, eaten supper, and celebrated his mostly normal day. 

“And the antidote?” Nick let the question trail off, but neither of them pursued it. The answer was already hanging stiffly between them. Peter only shrugged at him, except it wasn’t so apparent with only one shoulder to work with. Maybe the shock of adrenaline kicked the antidote out, overwhelmed it. Stress could be a factor.

Or maybe it was going to fade out after all. Strain versus vaccine. Bacteria and viruses constantly evolved, and science scrambled to pump out new shots to cover the next generations of disease. Maybe his body adapted, just like that.

Peter stood. Gravity was a terrible threat in his state and Nick had to steady him before he stumbled over his own feet. 

“It’s the last time,” he assured him stonily. “It will not happen again.”

Peter couldn’t raise his eyes from the floor. “Are you going to put me away?”

“We don’t know.” Nick didn’t let go of his shoulder. There was no warmth, no suspicious jump in his core. In fact, he was being washed over by ice. It was cold without the blankets, Betty having followed the same suit as the rest of New York that spring and set her thermostat to ungodly levels of chilled. Peter shook his head in tiny fractions, the hangman marks on his neck still dogging him too strongly for more emphatic gestures. 

“I would put me away.”

Nick didn’t contest him then. Peter ceased to care about convention and the prickly airs Nick usually exuded. He simply wrapped one arm around his middle. Nick reciprocated. Peter’s head tucked perfectly under his chin and his slipshod splinted arm stuck awkwardly out at Nick’s waist, avoiding the embrace. The sounds of a riotous nightlife were blooming outside, muffled through the walls and buzzing in both of their ears. 

“I’m so sorry, kid.”


	9. Civilians and Suits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damage control is the name of the game in the wake of Venom's attack on Peter and the antidote's failure. Aunt May and Mary Jane are faced with uneasy propositions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.
> 
> I ought to have called it The Women of Ultimate Spider-Man take over the POV for Pretty Much the Entire Chapter, but I swear I didn't plan it like that. I thought I could fit other bits in but then it was getting too long and I couldn't cut any of it or rearrange anything without breaking the plot, so. Enjoy the ladies. :)

Tony Stark was technically supposed to be in the lab, tinkering out a more reliable module of military comm. links as commissioned by the Secretary of Defense. He’d slipped out at the behest of Carol Danvers, who had called him over to S.H.I.E.L.D. for a consultation on the new security measures Fury was planning on installing with regards to the big terrorist on campus: Mr. Magneto himself. He was a bugger to keep a handle on, to say the least, with metal being so pervasively employed throughout the whole building. So far it had been a fairly successful venture, but even Nick Fury wasn’t blinded by that. His current incarceration was a temporary solution at best.

But more importantly, who was he to deny the company of a beautiful woman? Carol was at least a nine point eight, and that was sans make up and in a power suit. Tony had a thing for women in suits. And women in dresses. And for women wearing nothing at all. Besides which, communications? That was fast food for the tech junkie. He could pump that out on a coffee break, any time. There would be a later.

Except that shortly after arriving and getting no further than pleasantries and a little flirting on the bridge, he had cause to doubt his decision to skip out. There was suddenly a great hubbub below. Superiors and grunts alike scrambled under an order and were made to line in formation against the walls. Carol frowned. Then checked her communicator, her expression settling into a pointed grimace at the message.

“Looks like Fury got to the bottom of that rumble downtown.”

“Rumble?” Tony queried. “You know the only people who call it that live in S.E. Hinton novels?”

Carol rolled her eyes, but that devious lift in the corner of her mouth spoke of something more fond than irritation. “There was a situation downtown. Big black goop monster, eats people? It was in the middle of a mercenary take down and apparently gobbled up two cops and a gunman before we stepped in. We bagged the mercs, but the thing got away.”

“Until now, I’m presuming,” Tony closed in to the edge of the rail, peering over and alight with curiosity, heart thumping. Something lit inside him, like a triple shot of espresso. How was he only hearing about this after the action was over?

“No. They found what set him off.” Carol nodded to below, where the doors were open and a small team of agents – all women, peculiarly – wheeled in a stretcher while Nick pulled up the rear. Something jumped in Tony’s chest. “The Spider kid.”

“You serious?” He blanched and shot her a look, which was more than he should have done because Carol was now giving him a nosy squint. 

“You all right?” 

“Fine, fine.” He watched. When the troop came closer Tony was able to see over the heads of the agents onto the prone figure on the stretcher. Bandages, a lumpy makeshift cast with some bulky thing and beige first aid bandages wrapped around. Whoever had done the medic detail on the kid had been pretty shit at their job, but Tony supposed he didn’t have a myriad of resources at his disposal. 

His heart rattled out its rhythms with more panache than the situation needed: he was hardly under attack here and yet he could feel his pulse thumping like it was pounding out a salsa beat. Little flashes came to him. Long eyelashes batting up at him, red cheeks, a phantom weight in his lap where the kid had sat bare from head to toe, slender legs that spread out straighter than a ruler. How bashful he’d been shucking his clothes, standing naked before him all sinew and lean lines of muscle. Hot, wispy sweat prickled his brow and he clung to the railing with white knuckles, staring down below with a turbulent disquiet at the distant figure of Peter Parker. The kid was prone and in pain. Probably assaulted.

The antidote had been working just fine. The test results had been…

“Did they say what happened to him?” he pushed to ask, chasing his scattering thoughts before they could flee completely. 

Carol’s lips were thin, matronly. She assessed him with a once over that could have nicked the skin. “Fury told me you’re working on the cure, Stark. Do you really have to ask?”

Tony tapped the railing. The antidote _wasn’t_ working. Another prickle, another unsolicited wash of sultry heat, even as his chest seized tight and threatened to cut the air supply permanently. “The goop monster?”

She nodded in affirmation. “Apparently one of his own shit storms. Used to be a family friend of the Parkers, got on the bad side of some old experiment they were working on before they corked it. Went insane. Your usual modus operandi. Spider-Man’s Aunt got a call from a woman saying she had the kid stashed at her place, all banged up. She’s in a holding room right now.”

Down below, one of the women on stretcher duty had fumbled. Tony and Carol watched closely, the room silent enough for the old pin drop analogy as everyone watched her turn slowly, and then smother the kid on the stretcher with a motherly embrace. Nick shouted and the other agents tried to yank her off. She was sobbing riotously. 

“What in the world…” Carol muttered, pulling herself into the railing for a closer look. 

In trying to remove her death clutch the woman was pulled to the ground and she took Parker with her. The room rattled with a piercing yelp. He’d landed on his cast. Things got ugly then, force used to beat the woman off as Nick shot forward and returned Parker to the stretcher himself. Someone broke formation below along the rows pressed to the walls, making to assist. “Back off!” Nick bellowed, and pointed a gun. “Essential personnel only, no one approaches without clearance. And someone, get her out of here.”

The woman was dragged away, kicking and screaming, and the two left on stretcher duty pushed him on through with a pick up in speed. Nick did not address the room further, following behind without or a break in poise. The door shut behind them with a merciful bang, and the peons below drizzled back into their daily grind.

Tony didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until it rushed back to him, dizzying. The temperature of the room dropped by several degrees. He wiped the residual sweat from his brow and did his best to disguise his need to gasp for air as even and ordinary breathing. 

Carol was a tricky read, however, so his degree of success was difficult to discern. “Let’s get you going, then. I expect you’ll need to be debriefed.”

“The control room,” Tony said staunchly.

“There’ll be an observation room outside of wherever they’re putting him. I think Nick will be waiting for you there.”

“The control room,” Tony insisted again. Carol’s expression did not change, but the three second pause spoke volumes.

“I’ll let him know,” she concluded.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After being kept captive in a waiting room for two hours past reasonable delays, and spending the first twenty minutes of her audience with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top dogs screaming herself hoarse, May Parker eventually found herself at a loss for words. Her hands were folded, fingers interlaced and pressed over her mouth, and her elbows could have dug holes in the table. She would not take her eyes from the window. The room she found herself in was somewhat of a cross between the interrogation rooms you saw on cop shows and a hospital observation: blank, steel, and a pair of black chairs settled in front of a nondescript square table. Nick Fury was there (she had known him by face and reputation before, if not by acquaintance) and accompanied by a blonde woman comprised of hard angles and a sarcastic quirk to her brow, who had been introduced as Danvers. To her great relief, Tony Stark was not with them. But neither was Janet Van Dyne.

The window to the right was a two way mirror. In the other room was a hospital bed. Peter was in it, unconscious, being re-bandaged by doctors of indiscernible gender, rendered cold and alien in yellow hazmat suits. 

The scrapes on his face formed ugly criss-crosses over his mouth, like steel wool to paint. He had gone pale enough to turn that sickly, mint green around the edges. There was the arm in a cast, the bloodied mess at his shoulder that was being swabbed at with cotton, the way his legs lay limp and open. A cast around his neck. He must have been choked, or jolted hard enough to snap or sprain.

Her boy had been mauled to pieces.

“Not even one day,” May muttered after a long, curdling pause. “One single day, and this is what happens.”

“We thought the antidote was working,” Nick Fury provided for the hundredth time, unmoving. It must be a requirement of the job to be utterly unflappable, because nothing May had spewed or accused him of seemed to shake that man’s composure. “Please understand me when I say there was absolutely no chance, not a single one, that we would have let him go into public without reason to believe—“

She cut him off, jutting her hand in the air as if a sound smack would shortly follow. She still did not look him in the eye. “Where is that Stark man? He needs to answer for this.”

“Tony Stark is keeping his distance out of respect, Mrs. Parker. He’s doing everything he can to work on a solution. We all are.”

May laughed bitterly. “Oh, I am _certain_ he is.”

Perhaps it was for the best he wasn’t there. She would have beat him senseless, the way her palms tingled and her chest was lit ablaze with rage. Peter had denied that Tony Stark had done anything to him, but May knew. She wasn’t blind. The way Peter had pulled away from him, shuffled his feet and stiffened at the sight of him, those images had been dogging her ever since that day, nonstop. You would have to be a fool not to see it. 

How many more? How many of these people had touched her boy? Fury hadn’t, at least she could say that for the man. Peter would have been beyond devastated. But there were others, she knew. And the conversation with Peter and MJ earlier this month, about that man, Logan. She had done a little research. The most controversial member of the X-Men save for Charles Xavier himself. Dingy and volatile, with a mean scowl you could sense through the lifeless snapshots and news clippings. _That_ had been in her home, just before Peter had started looking ill. Maybe that was exactly when it had started. He had cried in her lap the next night, she remembered that so sharply. The memory chilled and rattled her bones, because now she knew it wasn’t just stress or paranoia that drove him down to fits.

Two for the list then. Three actually, if you lumped in Eddie Brock. He had been a little boy once, some six years Peter’s senior and leading him around the playground when the Parkers and the Brocks had picnics. That one stung, that one hurt because May had _known_ the Brocks. She had heard about Peter reconnecting with Eddie, and then there was some falling out – and only now was she privy to the facts. They’d stopped talking because Eddie had turned into a real life monster, just like Norman Osborn. How was she supposed to protect Peter from these things? Nothing made a lick of sense anymore, and no one could be trusted. 

The Danvers woman interjected next. “Mrs. Parker, we understand. We’re sorry. Truly, and deeply sorry. But now we have to decide what we’re going to do next.”

“I would like very much to know that, too,” May cursed through her teeth. She shifted in the chair for the first time, besieging them both with glacial stares. “More medicine? More tests? Or are we going to all grab a rosary and say prayers, because frankly—“

“Yes, more tests,” Fury uncrossed his arms, and moved forward, extending a hand to reason with. “But we believe it’s best that Peter stay here, Mrs. Parker. For obvious reasons.”

May was quiet again. The unyielding geometry of the room demanded it, suffocating by design, and her mind interwove the ticking of a clock when the taut silence became too exhausting. She looked again to her nephew, the doctors attaching tubes to machines. The last thing she had ever wanted to see. Her boy’s heartbeat as a green line, tracking the progress, teasing that inevitable straight line and damning, keening beep. 

“How long?” she said at last. She cradled her hand to her chest. 

“That’s just it, Mrs. Parker. We cannot put a time estimate on fixing this. The antidote we had took care of the symptoms only, not the source of the problem. We thought that would be enough to let him live his life while we worked on a cure,” Fury provided.

“The problem now becomes, how do we manage keeping your nephew here?” Danvers tilted her head at Peter.

“I don’t have money…” May lost the words. She bowed her head. She could not afford it. Not even if she worked for every waking hour, for the rest of her life.

“It’s not the money,” assured Fury. “It’s about keeping Spider-Man and Peter separate. It’s about keeping you safe.” 

May sunk into a chair, letting her forehead rest in her hands. Tears were a valid threat, but one she combated with all her might. Not now, now with these two in the room. Not when Peter’s life was at stake. Fury joined her at the table while Danvers reclined on the wall with her arms akimbo.

“You see, it’s not going to take long for people to put two and two together. The longer both Peter Parker and Spider-Man are out of sight, the more obvious it’s going to be that they’re the same person. He’s already got way too many people in on the secret, and not all of them have his best interests at heart. Or yours. The public even knows what school he goes to, or strongly suspects. Either way, we’re going to have to find a believable excuse for him to stay here indefinitely. Otherwise you’re both going to have to move in here or say sayonara to the country. You won’t be safe if anyone else connects the dots.”

“This is insane.” May shook her head and watched her nephew, watched the pair in front of her. Everything was too still for the riot pushing at her skin, turning her gut, squeezing at her heart and lungs. “Can’t we just…take it away? Take it all away? The spider powers, the new crap, whatever it is. Isn’t there some kind of negating – some kind of thing that will wipe it out for good? Get rid of everything so you won’t have to keep him locked up here? You people spend so much of your time trying to soup yourselves up and you never thought to make _some_ kind of safety measure?”

Fury regarded her intensely, but shook his head. “Speaking frankly, Mrs. Parker, we haven’t got a cure for the Oz formula,” Fury confessed. “We’re still working on fixing Harry Osborn. Nothing’s worked.”

“Harry’s been with you for ages,” May gasped. “And you haven’t…”

“We do all that we can, Mrs. Parker. But at the end of the day, we are only human.”

She could have screamed at the injustice of it. Instead she began to cry, streams forming with no sound to herald their arrival. She shook and looked at her lap, wiping them away with shame. “Good Lord…”

A buzz alarmed her, shaking within her pocket. Her cell phone. She pulled it out and was sorry to see the name in lights across the screen. “It’s his girlfriend,” she said, husky now that that the tears had come. “What do I say?”

“Up to you,” Fury concluded. “She knows what’s happening, right?” He drummed his fingers on the table. “She probably shouldn’t visit. Not just yet.”

He nodded to Danvers, who extricated herself from the wall as he stood, the pair of them making for the exit. “Come out to join us when you’re done, we’ll discuss the details some more. Accommodations have been arranged for you. Take as much time as you need.” Fury paused by her shoulder, looking down. Up close she could believe him to be human. There was cracks in the veneer, telling crinkles at the corner of his eye, the knot between his brows. He nearly outstayed his welcome, waiting for the most gracious moment to mutter one last platitude to her, as private as he could manage. “Peter is a special boy, Mrs. Parker. No one is more aware of that than you or I.”

May, stunned and feeling as if she might crush the phone trapped in her steel grip, nodded blankly at the man. She looked out at her nephew. She expected to hear the door shut behind her, but she did not. 

“Danvers.” called Fury.

May found the woman paused, behind the table and crossing her arms, studying Peter’s form just as intently as she had been. Her flawless mask of control had faltered, too: like Fury, there was worry lines now encroaching the borders of her mouth and eyes, her lips slightly parted as she watched Peter limply acquiescing to the doctor’s treatments. It was a count of five before she shook her head and regained composure. 

“Sorry.”

The pair strode out the door together, and May was alone in her perch, seeing all and capable of nothing.

The phone kept buzzing. May steadied herself, casting curious looks at the door they had disappeared through, but finally answered the call.

“Mary Jane? Yes…I’m at that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s place. The Triskelion, I think? Listen, sweetheart…I am so sorry…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning found Betty Brant creeping into the outskirts of Jameson’s office, clutching her forehead and squinting over her morning latte. “Hey.”

“Bee in your bonnet, Brant?” Jameson called out, not once looking up from his monitor. He dashed off another six lines, the rattle of the keyboard striking her head like needles. 

“Heads up. I think Parker’s sick again. Probably.” She stared into her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t expect him in today.”

“Again?” Jameson looked up with a furrow in his brow. “Christ’s sake, don’t they give shots in public schools? What the devil has he come down with?”

Betty kept her mouth solid and stoic. Untelling. Her eyes stayed perpetually narrowed. When she spoke again it was smooth and innocuous. “Who knows? I just ran into him last night at a pharmacy. He looked pretty deathly. I told him to keep in touch if things went south.”

“I thought you hated kids,” said Ben Urich, strolling on in uninvited. Betty rolled her eyes.

“When they’re kneecap high and mashing soggy crackers into my carpet, yeah.”

“Urich! Just the man I was looking for.” Jameson pulled away from his computer entirely and Betty couldn’t help being a bit irked by the sudden shift in attitude. “You’re covering the mutant attack from last night.”

“What?!” squawked Betty. “But I was there! I was actually there, I’ve got the inside scoop! I’ve already got it half done!”

“You were?” Jameson slapped the table. “You have any footage? Pictures?”

“I…” she gritted her teeth through the humiliation. “I dropped my camera. It’s gone.”

“Dropped?” In a true illustration of dickery, Jameson raised his hands as if recording a scene and then spread his fingers wide, leaving his imaginary camcorder to plummet to terrible fates below. “Just like that. You dropped the camera?”

Betty glared. “I was getting shot at.”

Jameson clucked his tongue and wagged his head. “And you wonder why we stick you with the fluff pieces.”

“I just told you I was in the line of fire and the first thing you tell me is how you think I suck at my job?!” Betty spat indignantly.

“Fine, fine. Collaborate. Urich, give it a little finesse after Brant’s squeezed out something usable.” Jameson pondered again as Betty seethed and Ben was trying to telepathically send her sympathy, as usual. “Say. Was this about the time you ran into Parker?”

She froze. “What?”

“Was Parker there with you? At the time?” Jameson fished for a cigar. “I give the kid a lot of hell but he does make a decent shutterbug. Any chance he snapped a few photos while he was out for cough syrup?”

Betty was stone still, studying Jameson intently. “No. He wasn’t.”

She exited. Urich followed, perplexed. “Betty, what on Earth—“

“I’ll have something for you by ten, all right?” She shooed him off. “I’m just a little shook up. That’s all.”

“You? Shook up?”

“I’m allowed to be. It was a pretty freaky monster thing. I got shot at. Leave me alone.” She slid into her desk and waited until she was sure Ben had her pegged as a lost cause. Then she slipped her phone out of her skirt, quietly dialed a number she had written on post it pad, and waited. 

She went to voice mail for the umpteenth time. Betty scowled and dipped her head lower. “Parker, I hope you disappeared this morning out of your own volition. Your Aunt’s not picking up the phone either, so if you went and died in a gutter somewhere, I swear to god I’m having a heart attack and coming for you in the afterlife. You hear me? How hard is it to leave a note?” She leaned back and peered around the edges of her cubicle, subtly inspecting if anyone was giving her conversation a curious ear, then pushed forward again. “You don’t have to act all cagey. I meant what I said. All I want to know is if you’re still kicking. I refuse to be the woman responsible for the death of...just call me. Don’t be a dick.”

She ended the message and thrust her head into her hands, pondering the glorious mess that had been the past twenty four hours. 

Then, miraculously, her work phone began to ring. The screen read the number as unknown. Betty bolted upright, stared at it for a moment, and then snatched the corded relic to her ear. “Hello?

“Is this Betty Brant?”

An unfamiliar voice. A woman. “Yes? Who is this?”

“Come down to the parking lot. C-14. Tell your boss you’re on a coffee run. We want to speak to you privately about the incident last night.”

Betty stopped breathing. The caller hung up. 

Within seven minutes Betty had secured a tape recorder between her bra and blouse, told Jameson she was running an errand and rode the elevator down an ungodly distance to the lower parkade. C level. Waiting for her was a pair of smartly dressed agents in suits. One had a wire to his ear, a nondescript sort that intimidated through bulk but left no certain impressions. The other, a good looking blonde woman, held herself with the air of someone in charge. That one was the big gun. Betty frowned and stomped towards them. She had her suspicions, but the closer she got the more the tiny emblems on their coats turned to a coldly familiar bird insignia. 

This was exactly what she had been looking for. Betty tried for droll and came out biting instead. “You rang?” 

“Miss Brant? I’m an operative of S.H.I.E.L.D. Carol Danvers. You are aware of who we—“

“Oh _no_ , I _haven’t_ been working at a newspaper for the past five years. I’m just the broad that gets the coffee,” she snapped. “What do you want?”

“No need for the suspicion. I understand it was you who picked up Peter Parker last night from the scene downtown. Am I correct?”

“…Yes,” she muttered. It was tempting to cast around for lurking eavesdroppers, but she did not move her gaze one iota. If S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted a conversation private, it would be private. “He wasn’t there when I woke up. I don’t know where he is.”

“We retrieved him from your apartment, Miss Brant. We apologize for the intrusion.”

She wasn’t half so relieved as she thought she would be. Every muscle in her was still clenching like she was stuck in her Thursday night hot yoga class. At least the kid was in good hands. “How very covert of you. I suspect this is a warning to keep my mouth shut?”

“Yes and no. Miss Brant, we have to ask that you keep Mr. Parker’s identity a secret. You see, we’re giving a press release on the incident first thing tomorrow morning. Due to his injuries, Mr. Parker has been rendered incapacitated.”

If there had been some relief, it was all washed out of her now. An ill notion encroached the borders of her mind, standing her hairs on end. “What do you mean? Did he – was there internal bleeding?”

“He’s alive, don’t worry. But there’s been some lasting damage. As such, he’s ending his career as Spider-Man. Indefinitely.” Carol Danvers flipped a palm up, as if offering the new information on a platter. Betty’s nose wrinkled. “And in order to do so, we’re naming him as a casualty of the attack.”

“…So you’re declaring him dead,” Betty provided, the bark in her dissipating.

“We’re declaring Spider-Man dead,” Danvers illuminated, “So that when _Peter Parker_ gets better, he can live a normal life. He won’t have to worry twenty-four seven about getting his school bombed by old enemies, or being stalked by the press. Your usual PR nightmare as an outed superhero. But as such, we are going to need your cooperation.”

Betty did not respond. She ran her head through the scenarios, the possible outcomes. Who all had Spider-Man pissed off in his lifetime? Truth be told she passed over a lot of the schlock that ran through the Bugle about Spider-Man, because in her mind it was a tired propaganda parade over one of the most incompetent vigilantes New York had ever seen. The anti-Spidey brigade was one of their biggest flaws, a favorite of detractors and competitors who liked to brow beat them with it at every interval. But now that it was personal, she had to start thinking seriously about every story the paper spun about Spider-Man. Immediately her mind went to Kraven, to Norman Osborn (and Parker had come in complaining about his house getting wrecked by the nut once, how dumb were they all not to see it?), to Wilson Fisk. That weird Octopus uggo. Jameson, of course. The list was a long one and she was sure she was missing half of it.

Carol Danvers seemed to take her non-answer as a hint to keep fishing. “We’ll be willing to compensate you for your silence. Plus we’ll give you and the Daily Bugle first run at the story. I understand that kind of inside scoop would look pretty good on the old resume, am I right?”

Money. Okay, money was good, Betty could always use a little more because downtown Manhattan living was a pain in the ass, but now her mouth was going sour and it wasn’t from the coffee. She twisted her lips into a sneer. “You know what? No.”

Both of them were stunned. Danvers raised her brows and the silent bodyguard raised his head for the first time. Betty fished inside her blouse and pulled the recorder loose, then tossed it at their feet. “Screw it. I told the kid I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I am keeping my word. So you can have that.”

“You were recording this,” Danvers remarked impassively.

“You’re surprised?”

“Not one bit. I’m just pissed I didn’t get to do my cool, ‘And hand over that tape recorder in your blouse’ bit at the end of this. Ruining my fun.” She scooped up the device and tucked it into her pocket.

“Well boo for you. I’m not up for this. Money’s fine, but I don’t – I want you to understand that this is seriously killing me to say this, but I will not take your money. Or your offer. This newspaper has spent enough time dragging Spider-Man’s name through the mud. I wouldn’t have given two craps before, but now? When it’s just a kid, just a little kid out there taking bullets under some deluded idea that it’s his responsibility, his public _duty_? Fuck’s sakes, you realize not every reporter is soul-sucking scum, right?”

“Well, you do work for the Bugle,” Danvers shrugged. “Forgive our assumption.”

“Jameson doesn’t deserve to get this story. If you took the kid in, you know what really happened to him. And I am not about to use that, in any way, shape or form, to spiffy up my resume.” Betty crossed her arms. “I’m not saying squat. Run your press release. I don’t want to be part of it.”

Danvers smiled. She even clapped. “Good woman. You know, if things ever get old at the Bugle, drop your resume off with us. We could always use better PR.”

Betty snorted. “Is that more hush money?”

“It’s a genuine offer. From me to you.” Danvers shot the man a look and he went to the sleek black car behind them, pulling the door open. “We’re off now. We’ll be keeping tabs on you, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“And the kid?” Betty called. “Will the kid be okay?”

She did not answer. Danvers slid into the car and the man shut the door on her, and staunchly ignored Betty’s queries as he rounded for the the driver’s side. Betty gritted her teeth and watched them pull out of the parkade with bitter, glittering eyes. 

“Way to go, Bets. You just heroed your way out of the kind of acclaim you’ve always dreamed of.” She raised a middle finger to the heavens. “Thanks for nothing, Lady Luck, you conniving old asshole.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What’s going on?”

“He’s just…sick again.” Mary Jane pursed her lips and looked at the floor, answering the same question that had nipped at her heels through every class, every encounter with a stunned classmate. “The doctors don’t know what’s wrong.”

The English teacher, Mrs. Koertig, nodded hesitantly. “Will you pass on his assignments, then, Miss Watson? And tell him we all wish him better?”

Flash snorted. Mary could have flown across the room to punch him in the face. She might just do so if she caught him in the hall after. Liz reached over and squeezed her hand and Kong shot her a puppy dog look. Mary ventured to accommodate them both, make to appreciate their gestures of solidarity, but they just did not get it.

If she could, she would have given them a huge rundown, cried at them, gone and gotten herself a therapist like she desperately needed, because she knew what PTSD was and it wasn’t just about Norman and the bridge anymore. She would have shouted at the teachers and dragged S.H.I.E.L.D.’s name through the dirt all over the internet, whatever newspapers and stations would listen to her. They had failed him. She would get the world just as furious on Peter’s behalf as she was.

Yet she couldn’t. She still couldn’t even tell her own _Mother_ , who had sat her down the other day and wept at her while begging for an explanation, why Mary was drawing away and what was going on with the Parkers that always made her so upset. She had looked Mary in the eye and asked if Peter had been hurting her. And Mary, sworn to secrecy and brilliantly wounded by the mere notion of Peter as a bruiser, just played innocent and assured her with every power she had that nothing was wrong, that Peter was a saint to her and nothing was happening at school, that she wasn’t still worried about Norman Osborn, that she wasn’t just missing her deadbeat Dad. Life was all hunky dory and she would always be one hundred percent honest with her Mom.

Ha ha. What a comedian she was.

When the bell rang and school was finally, mercifully done for the day, Mary left in a storm. Her head low, stomping, rushing away before Liz could find her and ply her with offers of movies and ice cream. She made it out to the yard before someone grabbed her shoulder. 

“Hey!”

Kitty Pryde, again. Mary whirled around and snapped, “What?!”

A few passerby gave them curious looks, but Kitty was not to be deterred. She grabbed Mary by the shoulders and steered her forward. “March. No sass. We’re talking, now.”

“Excuse me?”

“Miss Watson, you have no idea exactly how crazy you’ve been looking all day.”

Mary wriggled out of her grip. “I can walk fine on my own, _thank you very much_!” 

That tone did them no favors in the secrecy department. Startled by her volume and razor sharp tone, people were turning around to watch, giggling or slack jawed. Mary should have cared more. But she didn’t. 

Sadly, neither did Kitty, who did take a quick stock of their onlookers before crowding Mary again, speaking quieter but with rapid fire delivery. “Then do so over to someplace quiet-like, where we can actually discuss—“

“There’s nothing to dis—“ Mary’s gaze was caught over Kitty’s shoulder, where a car had opened up to one of the last things she wanted to see: Johnny Storm hopping out of the driver’s seat, grinning brightly and waving at her. Kitty turned and her jaw dropped. “Oh my god,” Mary groaned.

“What’s he doing here?”

“You think I know?” Mary was flabbergasted as Johnny hailed them over. Mortified and feeling the harmless stares directed at them shift to ominous, calculating prickles, she ducked her head and made to obey. Kitty scrambled after her.

“Yo! X-girl! I forgot you went here!” Johnny called. His arms were spread wide for hugs. “Where’s – hey, what’s with the frown?” The showboat was siphoned out of him as his attention ping ponged between the two girls. “Where’s Pete?”

“What are you doing here?” Kitty said quietly, twisting her hair between her fingers with a bunny stunned stare. “MJ, did you call him?”

“No one called me. I came to hang out, now that Pete’s on the mend. I got kicked out so my sister could mack on Reed earlier and I’ve been out all day and everything is so boring when you’re doing it alone. Hang out with me, please.” He squinted and surveyed the crowd behind them, searching for their missing member. “Does Pete have detention or something?”

“Johnny.” Mary said sharply. Both of them went quiet as she punctured him with her pointed gaze. Johnny began as dumbfounded, but his eyes cracked open wide, his smile dropped completely. Baleful was a hard expression on the guy, zapping out that crack of light that made him so irresistible. 

“Oh no,” he said, crestfallen. “MJ, come here.” Johnny widened his arms again and crooked his fingers, beckoning. Mary couldn’t help herself any longer. She thrust herself at him and his shirt was damp within seconds as she trembled in his embrace, from stoic to crying out pints in no time at all. The weight of the day, nearly twenty hours sans sleep and on barely any food, being barred from seeing Peter after he nearly died, the morbid speculation her mind kept spinning in lieu of facts – it was all hammered out of her in one swoop. Mary simply did not have the energy to keep poise, not a moment longer. Johnny was a perfect gentleman and rubbed her back while whispering encouraging things to her. “We’re gonna figure this out. Okay?”

“Figure what out?” Kitty interrupted. She wasn’t petulant anymore, but panicked. “Guys, what is happening to Peter Parker?”

Mary did not lift her head, preferring to stay swaddled in Johnny’s arms and shudder it out. “You should tell her,” Johnny urged. “She’s cool. She’s an X-Man, MJ.”

“Was,” Kitty corrected.

“Still legit, though. Right? You’re not all wacko terrorist now?”

“Why would I be going to a human high school if I was going to be an effective terrorist of any kind?”

“Uh, infiltration? Duh?”

“I…” With extraordinary difficulty Mary took a peek out from Johnny’s chest, revealing a sliver of green eyes and a reddened nose to study Kitty. The girl was begging from every inch of her. It killed Mary to see it, that same devotion to Peter lining the tension in someone else’s skin, their gestures. Her eyes bore into Mary with the crushing inevitability of an oil drill. “…Kitty, you have to promise…”

“I do,” she insisted immediately. 

“Get in.” Johnny only pulled one arm away, keeping Mary tucked tight under the other as he opened up the backseat to his car. “We shouldn’t do this here. Kind of awkward with all my fans around.” He gave their onlookers a wave. Some of them had their smart phones out. 

“God,” Mary grunted, and begrudgingly dismissed the idea of flipping them off. Now there were going to be rumors about her and Johnny, or something equally ridiculous. She decided then that her school was a dump and she loathed it utterly.

Her phone beeped and Mary snatched it out of her pocket with a lizard-like dexterity, stunning both of her companions with her sudden deftness. It wasn’t a text from Mrs. Parker, which sucked, but an email. Address unknown. She scowled and opened it. She read it in silence, but there was an aching knot growing where her brows folded together. She mouthed the words to herself.

Johnny tried to take a peek. “What’s up? Is it him?”

Mary shook her head and showed them the email address, a Yahoo based moniker comprised of an indecipherable jumble of letters and numbers. “Either of you know this guy?” Both shook their heads. Her mouth went dry. “Someone wants to meet me tonight. About Peter.”

“Someone anonymous?” Johnny asked with a narrow squint. “Is it S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Wouldn’t they call? Or just break into my house and wait for me? Secret spy style?” The two nodded and Mary read the email again. The weren’t even any cryptic hints as to who the sender was. She might have been able to hazard a guess. Peter spun enough tales for her that Mary felt she could Nancy Drew her way around most of the vigilantes in New York. Had there been something telling, like a line about looking for a nutter in a white cape, she could have at least started digging up research on Moon Knight. “There’s no name. This address, though, where they want to meet. It’s close to our neighborhood.”

“Um, can I cast my vote in this?” Kitty raised her hand. “Don’t go. It sounds tres sketch.”

“I know, but…”

“Let’s go. Road trip.” Johnny said, guiding Mary to the car. “Kitty, we’re going to fill you in. And then we can discuss how we’re going to beat down this uber creep trying to mack on MJ.”

“I doubt it’s me they’re trying to mack on,” Mary grumbled under her breath, but she clambered into the car anyway. The trio drove off, Mary in the front seat and Kitty guarding their bags in the back as Johnny took them for a scenic drive around Queens.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

May Parker massaged her feet, seated on the bed of the hotel-like room that she had been set up in, free of charge, for her stay with S.H.I.E.L.D. It would save her on transit and gas, they reasoned, and this way she was on hand should Peter need her at a moment’s notice. And she was out of harm’s way. It was strange to think that a prison for super powered maniacs even had accommodations like this. Apparently she was in the same building as Magneto. The real living Magneto.

Norman Osborn, too. She’d been assured that every last one of them was detained under the highest security. Which was why they had Peter here, and not in a separate hospital or base of operations. He needed the security to _stay_ safe, not to keep people safe from him. (Although one could contend that was an equal concern, but May was far more worried about her nephew than the creeps who had been molesting him.) No where else in New York were there the kinds of safety measures they needed, and so she and her boy were locked up with America’s most dangerous mutants and genetic anomalies.

Which made it all the more harder to have confidence that their plan would work. Peter would stay here, under the guise of being treated for an illness that had yet to be ascertained. Depending on the projected length of his stay Nick Fury was proposing that a cancer or a tumor would be their best shot at keeping him out of school and work for the long haul. And S.H.I.E.L.D. would leak to the world that Spider-Man had died last night, fighting against Eddie Brock. They would claim that his face had been mauled beyond recognition, his prints unrecorded in any database. They would lay the search for Spider-Man to rest, and once Peter was free he and May and even Mary Jane could carry on with their lives.

Except that Norman Osborn was in this building, still alive. A man like that, who knew who Peter was and knew always where to find him, was still alive. Still hating her nephew with the bitterest bile.

She would be shocked if she slept tonight at all. So she had set the coffee maker on to brew and stared forlornly at the book she had fished out of her purse, hoping for a minor distraction.

In reality, distraction came in the form of a knock on the door. May grumbled, but made to let whoever it was in. 

“Sorry, I know it’s late,” Carol Danvers said, shrugging. She was still in the same suit she had been wearing last night. “Oh good, is that the coffee you’ve got on? I could use a drink, I’ve been running around town nonstop.”

“Please, come in,” May said courteously. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. The woman sauntered in and May shut the door behind her. Danvers ripped open a pack of sugar and dried creamer and poured it into a styrofoam cup. She grabbed a second pack and held it over another cup, raising a brow at May in silent inquiry. “I drink it black, thank you.”

“Never could, myself. I’m still stuck in my sweet tooth phase, I guess.”

She served them both up a drink and they settled on the edge of the bed. Danvers checked her watch. “Okay, full disclosure. I’ve set the security cameras in here to a loop. No one knows I’m here.”

“They’re watching me?” May asked, affronted but not entirely surprised. 

“There’s nothing in the bathroom. I promise. I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” May put down the coffee on the nightstand, suddenly without the stomach for it. She revised her statement a little sheepishly. There was really only one reason for S.H.I.E.L.D. to talk to her. “Well, I mean, what about Peter? What is it now?”

“Yeah, him. I’ve been doing nothing but damage control for your nephew today. Real nightmare he’s made for himself. I had to alert the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, that Brant lady, anyone that’s ever seen his face that we can think of. Which is a lot of people, by the way. They all have to keep it quiet now. For good. Tried to get a hold of his girlfriend but Fury’s said that she could probably swing by on her own sometime, when the kid’s feeling up for it. But—“ She took a dramatic pause, squaring May in the eye. “—I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’m looking into our options.” 

May didn’t know what to say to that. This morning, she had been assured that the fake death was their only option. Anything else might be suicide. Danvers took another sip of her coffee and May wished that she would get on with it. “Do you remember when your house was attacked? You had a heart attack, and there was that whole fiasco with the clones?”

“Don’t remind me,” May said sourly.

“Yes, well. Remember that the Watson girl went missing?” Danvers smiled grimly. “That was the nutter clone’s work, apparently. Well, the _nuttiest_ one, most of them were not right in the head, but anyway. That one went and grabbed her, and carted her all the way to an old Oscorp lab in New Jersey. And when he got there he injected her with Oz.”

“What?!” May snapped. “Excuse me? When did – isn’t that the same thing that made Norman Osborn go crazy? That turned Harry into a –“

Danvers nodded hurriedly. “Big butt ugly monster? You got it. It’s also what made your nephew get his neat little spider powers, but he’s about the only one that didn’t lose his mind and hulk out on the stuff. So to speak. Anyway, I think the clone’s rationale was that she would be able to defend herself or some bullshit like that, so he shot her up with it against her will. And it worked. Miss Mary Jane was turned into a big, butt ugly monster.”

“But she’s been fine this whole time,” May insisted. “Not once has she – is she able to control it? Why hasn’t Peter told me? Is she all right?”

“She’s more than all right, Mrs. Parker. She’s cured.”

May was dumbfounded. Her jaw dropped. “But…just last night. Last night Nick Fury told me there was no cure.”

“Oh there is. It’s not ours, and that’s why he’s hesitant to go for it. We can’t vouch for it, and we can’t say for certain it will fix this new problem. But you know who can?” Danvers reached into her pocket and pulled out little glass vials, like the ones that loaded into the needle gun that Peter had to use on himself for the past two weeks. “Reed Richards.”

May searched her eyes. Carol Danvers was smiling. “Like I said, we need to discuss our options.”


	10. The Trouble with Doppelgangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary meets her mysterious contact, and Aunt May and Carol Danvers execute their plans. Nothing goes quite as imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter except that it is probably the longest yet. Whoops?

This was a dumb idea. 

After riding around town, informing an increasingly owl-eyed Kitty of the situation at hand and nearly dying in a car wreck because Johnny hit the breaks at an intersection when he realized exactly what kind of assault Mary was talking about (he’d assumed, apparently, that things had only ever gone as far as kissing with Peter’s powers, and was now more horrified on his behalf than either girl was), the best plan the three of them could concoct was to send in Mary Jane, seemingly alone, while Johnny and Kitty stealthily hid themselves just within earshot of the entrance. She was not to move too far from the door, lest the conversation get lost and the pair miss a potential cue to jump in and save her tucchas from mortal peril.

So one could imagine the amount of confidence Mary had in their execution was hovering just above the “total bust” line. 

While they did eventually agree that the possibility of getting information about Peter’s case, or perhaps some intel on his assailant (Mary knew of Eddie Brock but couldn’t pick him out of a line up if she tried), was worth the risk for their friend, Mary couldn’t shake the notion that the whole set up reeked of an instant kidnapping. Her rendezvous was an empty warehouse, because where else could things possibly look shadier? She studied the shabby building with trepidation, having done nothing else since arriving and refusing to move more than two paces past the door. Her cell phone was in her coat pocket and she could not stop thumbing the buttons with worry. Even with Johnny and Kitty as backup, poised outside to strike at the slightest wrinkle in the works, she couldn’t stop the twisting in her gut. It had been ten minutes, and she was still standing alone in the dark.

Maybe the person had seen Johnny and Kitty and bailed. They were hiding, but come on. Not a one of them was exactly Navy Seal league. The X-Men and the Fantastic Four did not add half so much credit to their resumes as they would like to think, as those were generally barge in and try to hit the bad guy sort of outfits. And even then, of the two of them Johnny was the only one poised to dish out certifiable super hero damage, and that was an accident waiting to happen in a building full of dry old wood. Yet here they were, a trio of plucky teenagers trying to pull off a covert operation. 

This wasn’t Hogwarts. This shouldn’t be her Thursday night. If anything she was the Charlie portion of the Charlie’s Angels outfit. Mary liked to research, report. The scene of the crime was exciting, true, and she did her best to never hesitate where it counted, but she could only pump out ten push ups in one go and she clocked out at an achingly average sprint rate on her most recent gym exam. This was not where she belonged.

Mary gritted her teeth. Or maybe the butthole trying to corner her was somewhere else, lurking in the dark of night. Waiting. Perched high with a sniper rifle. She knew first hand what happened to girls that dated superheroes. Peter would be furious with her. Perhaps even more so than she had been at him when she’d caught up with Logan. Mary sniffed at the cold air and decided that ten minutes was more than long enough to wait for potential mobsters to jump out and stab her in the neck. Whoever had contacted her was late on purpose, and in her mind that was strike three thousand and forty four. 

She spun on her heel and heard a plaintive, “Wait!” from behind. A girl’s voice.

Mary instantly whipped around and peeked back inside, astonished. It wasn’t anyone she knew, that was for certain, but it sounded like someone young. Her age, maybe. 

“Hello?” she called into the darkness.

“I’m sorry, I’m just not – I shouldn’t have done this. I’m sorry.” There was a soft thud on the floor. Far off, in the dark shadowed parts where the geriatric street lamps outside did not reach. “This was a terrible idea and I’m sorry for making you come out here.”

Mary couldn’t make out the figure beyond a hazy silhouette. She squinted, edged closer by a margin and let the door swing shut behind her. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but there was a strain in the girl’s voice. A particular sadness, and it made her doubt that this would end with a knife wounds and police sirens. “Who are you?”

There was a polite cough. “That’s classified.”

Mary frowned. “Classified enough that you’re emailing me with a Yahoo account? Please.”

“It’s free email!” There was some choice muttering that distance prevented her from being privy to, but the girl in the dark continued soon after. “Look, I know this is crazy, but you have to tell me. What is happening to him right now?”

In spite of knowing perfectly well that was why she was here, Mary couldn’t keep her hackles from raising if she tried. No matter how young or old this girl was she was not about to spill beans of any kind. “Who are you and what do you want from me?”

“MJ, please,” the figure pleaded.

Her nickname. Also not unexpected, this girl had emailed her directly after all, but equally as terrifying now that they were speaking out in the open. “Look, you either tell me right now how you know Peter, how you know _me_ and got my own personal email, or I am splitting right now and you have nothing.”

“I can’t! I just – I saw he was on the news again. They spotted him in Manhattan and the footage looked real, and I thought that – he’s getting better?”

That did it. Mary, growing bolder and braver now that the girl was stumbling and cowering in the shadows, strode forward. “Come out here.”

“No, don’t! Don’t don’t don’t!”

Mary was ablaze. She couldn’t take her eyes from the silhouette. Closer now she could see her hair was dark. She might have been naked, or in spandex. Tingles hit her palms and she outstretched her hand. “Come here.”

The girl was quiet. Unmoving. Mary came closer, stepped into the patch of muddied shadows. The girl stood her ground, even as Mary cornered her. The light was all but useless here, but Mary could see vague shapes. Her lithe frame, shoulders held stiff and fearful, how her hair was thick and long and just a little bushy. 

Insatiably curious, Mary reached up and touched her cheek. It was covered in cloth. The girl cringed a little, but didn’t balk. Didn’t bail. With a tenderness that was unexpected even to her, Mary sought out the divide between mask and skin. It lay along the hairline, hooking over the girl’s ears. She peeled it away, and saw nothing of the girl’s face except the edge her lashes and her left cheek, which caught slivers of light from the yellowed bulbs beyond the entrance. Everything else was a mottled navy blur. Mary leaned in and pressed their lips together. 

She could feel the shape of her lips better like this, estimate the length of her nose by the way it pressed against her cheek. The kiss was comfortable. Easy. Shocking, because she had never kissed a girl and thought there would be a lot more fuss if she tried. (Though she had been adamant in the past that exceptions were to be made for Natalie Portman and Kerry Washington, who had been unduly blessed by the hotness fairy if you asked her.) Maybe it was because kissing other girls was so intrinsically linked with raunchy pornos for boys in her mind, but for whatever reason the pulse from the first tiny contact on their lips shot down to her loins with disproportionate fanfare. It was probably the most taboo thing she had ever done.

Suffice to say it didn’t feel so bad. Not at all.

And perhaps that was because there was something so lovely and familiar about this, but it yanked out of reach when Mary tried to catch it, the notion slippery and vague. So she was left to simply keep kissing the girl. Open their mouths now, touch tongues. And she thought maybe she ought to get a little closer, so she shuffled her feet in by an inch or two, and maybe there was also a case to be made for exploration. 

There was one major difference already, as the two of them were nearly even in height. Neither one of them were boasting a sizeable pair, but their breasts brushed together once or twice and Mary’s attention went there, laser focused. She had let Peter touch her boobs once. Over the bra. They always squeezed pretty closely when they hugged and that gave her a bit of a thrill, and once or twice she’d found herself taking a pause while hugging Liz, who had an enviable 34-C cup, contemplating the pressure of boob on boob (god, what a junior high way to put it) and whether she liked it. One of her hands drifted downward and she could feel the girl’s frame tense with anticipation as she cupped her breast. Mary’s blood pounded down low. Hungry, elated. It was really quite soft, and nice. Comforting to hold, like her own. She gently squeezed the girl’s breast and pressed closer, her knee working between her lean legs. The girl was suddenly all hands, grabbing her by the small of her back and her rear and pushing Mary’s head back with a sudden eagerness to return the kiss. Mary broke away and giggled quietly. That sort of dorky, I-Can’t-Believe-This-Is-Happening enthusiasm had belonged to the first few weeks of dating Peter, and reliving it now – albeit with a stranger – struck the funny bone a lot harder than it should have. The girl joined her, the whites of her teeth a dim stripe in the barren light as she grinned with wicked glee, just before she dipped in and kissed her again.

Clearly she was feeling adventurous too, because the girl went from gently squeezing her rear, sighing appreciatively, to rounding one hand to the front. She dipped it down between Mary’s thighs, rubbing, searching. Mary hissed and helped her find it, guiding her by the wrist and twisting her body, and right _there._ Oh lord, it was right there. Through her jeans and it still felt like a godsend.

“HEY! HANDS OFF THE LADY!”

Then there was light. Johnny swooped in with all the glory of a comet. Mary broke away shielding her eyes, already burning from the sudden and cutting switch from darkness to interrogative light, and her partner stumbled away shrieking. She was dizzy and she couldn’t suss out why, but thin fingers wrapped around her biceps from behind and dragged her out of the way as Johnny dived down after the girl, who was on the ground and screaming, covering her face as she cowered on the ground. There was smoke, and they were all assailed by the horrid stench of burnt hair. 

“OH MY GOD, YOU TURN THAT OFF, JONATHAN STORM!” hollered the girl, “OR I WILL STUFF YOUR FACE SO FULL OF FIST YOU’LL NEVER BE ON TV AGAIN!”

“Dude, you burned her hair!” Kitty bemoaned from behind Mary’s head, “Oh man, I could puke!”

“It’s not like I aimed for it!”

He flew around the downed assailant a few times, building a corral around her with fire and smoke. He nearly succeeded, until there was an unexpected, thin jet of white from the ground, and suddenly Johnny was stumbling on the ground and the burning smell switched from hair to plastic as he wrestled with the glob on his face. Kitty gasped, Mary gaped, and Johnny swore as the girl pointed her fingers skyward and shot off another round, a line up to the roof that sprang her to safety.

Everyone clued in then, but Mary had been warned and was therefore the only one who was not so completely gobsmacked as to do nothing about it. 

“Jessica!” She called out.

The girl, crouching in the rafters and eerily lit by the remnants of Johnny’s flames dancing over his shoulders and head, paused. She peered over them. There was a small chunk of her hair that had gone crusted and black in the front, near the ends where they trailed off at her waist. Her costume was scarlet, with a large white spider that encompassed her torso. And her face, pale and aghast, was Peter Parker’s.

“Holy moly,” Kitty hissed in her ear. Mary drew away from her and gawked upwards.

“You _are_ Jessica, right?” she ventured, covering her mouth with a hand in shock. “Peter said…Oh my gosh, you really are exactly like him.”

“I didn’t know there was a Spider-Girl,” Johnny said, scratching his head. The flames were off and so was the webbing. He turned to Mary. “Is she evil? Should I nuke her?”

“Spider- _Woman,_ ” Jessica corrected peevishly, jolted out of her timid bunny stare. “And you already did, you turd.”

“You were smothering MJ! Or something. I couldn’t see exactly, but stuff was happening!”

“Not that kind of stuff,” Mary intervened, flushing bright and cringing. Kitty and Johnny both fixed her with perplexed looks. Above them Jessica crouched further behind the rafter and moaned piteously.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in a tinny, miniscule voice. “I really am. I’ll just go mourn my hair in a gutter somewhere. I won’t bother you guys, I’ll leave quietly.”

“No don’t!” Mary flung her hands out in the air. “Come down!”

“You know I can’t.”

“You come down here right now, or I’ll—“ Mary had to halt to fetch something suitable from Peter’s history. Sadly for his sake, it wasn’t hard. “I’ll tell them about the sixth grade sock hop!”

Jessica gasped loudly enough to echo. “You would _not._ You swore!”

“I’ll unswear here and now if you don’t!”

“You went to a sock hop with Spider-Woman?” Johnny muttered to her, and Kitty gave an exasperated groan.

“Are you not getting this? Like at all?”

But Jessica did come down. She dropped like a flour sack and sheepishly scuttled over to a pile of crates, keeping a fair distance between herself and the wannabe Musketeers. The cringing, the awkward shuffle – it was all Peter’s motions. His expressions. Just mimicked perfectly on a girl, with modest hips and breasts and around two feet more hair than Peter ever had. Mary cursed her own stupidity.

She even kissed like Peter did. He was going to break into pieces if he ever found out.

Mary bit her lip and wrung her hands. “Jessica, uh, so you know…uh. You know who we are. Heh.”

“You could say that.” The clone’s eyes darted skittishly between the three of them.

“So um. I guess you two,” Mary spun awkwardly to point at her companions, “should get um, get introduced. Johnny, Kitty, this is Jessica. She’s one of Peter’s clones.”

Johnny stared Mary square in the eye. Then he set Jessica under his scrutiny. “But…wait, that’s…no, she’s way too hot…”

“Oh my god!” both Kitty and Jessica yelped. Jessica hid her face behind her hands and was muttering “No,” on rapid repeat to herself.

“Peter’s plenty hot!” Mary retorted, but Johnny was already throwing up surrender hands.

“Well I mean for like – look, I get the spider thing but normally when a guy dresses up like a girl it doesn’t work _that_ well—“

“I’m not dressing up! I _am_ a girl!” Jessica wailed. “Everyone shut up!”

“Okay, everyone, that is beside the point here!” Mary shouted, flustered beyond reprieve but yearning for it anyway. “I think the issue is, that you’re having the same issue as Peter is, yes?”

Jessica, though increasingly mortified, was ceasing the hissy fit she had been throwing and hesitantly nodding to Mary. This time Johnny was the first to catch the drift, his jaw dropping and pointing a condemning finger at Mary, saying nothing but still perfectly conveying his horrendous revelation. _You were having a lesbian make-out with your boyfriend’s clone and she touched your fun button._

Mary withered and waved him off apopletically. She let it slowly dawn on Kitty without giving her a second glance, and did nothing to acknowledge her crime. “Stop that – no. Look, Jess, to answer your earlier question? We thought Peter was getting better, Tony Stark made him a thing. It was working, for like two whole weeks.”

“But just yesterday…” Jessica protested.

“It stopped working yesterday,” Mary said grimly. “Do you remember Eddie Brock?”

Watching the implications sink in was excruciating. The bleak, queasy hollowness that swallowed Jessica’s face only worsened her concern for Peter. Mary was going to break into the Triskelion herself at this point, if Eddie Brock really was all that atrocious. “Is he okay?”

“No. Not at all. I can’t even go see him. They’re keeping Aunt May there with him.” 

Jessica considered this morosely. She kicked at a loose pebble and wrung out her fingers. “I guess I just thought…I came here because I thought he’d figured out how to handle it. And I know he’s under surveillance so I thought if I asked you, I could…but then…” She shielded her eyes. Her voice betrayed nothing but knowing what she did about Peter, Mary was certain it was because she was crying. “I really am sorry. This was a mistake. I never meant to…to hurt you, Mary.”

“You didn’t,” she insisted.

“But it’s gross. It’s so hard just looking at you. I knew this could happen and maybe a little part of me…a little bit wanted…” Her lip was trembling and Mary’s heart broke with it. Jessica drew her hand away and smiled at them, though her eyes were a damning red. “Good thing you brought back-up. I guess.”

She began to scale the wall.

“Wait, Jessica?” Johnny was stepping forward, seemingly recovered from the enormity of his earlier gaffs. “Spider-Woman? Look, maybe you should stick with us. We can take you to the Triskelion. If it’s not safe for Pete, it’s not safe for you.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Kitty said quietly. “You could run into some nasties out there. Same as he did.”

“We’ll call them for you. We’ll wait with you here,” Mary joined in. She took a daring two steps forward, entirely unlike her advances before, and held out an open hand. “Please? I know you’re alone. You don’t have to be, you know.”

“That’s the thing, MJ.” She reclaimed the mask from where it hung around her neck, stretching it up over her face and disappearing into impassivity. The large white eyes and featureless red were just as maddening as Peter’s blank lenses and webs. “I do kind of have to be.”

“You could die,” Mary said sharply.

Of all things, Jessica chose that to laugh at. “Well, that would be about on par for the course wouldn’t it? Last Peter Parker standing shouldn’t be me.”

The bitter silence following left a sour taste in everyone’s mouth. Kitty growled, “Don’t you joke about that.”

Jessica bowed her head. “Look. I’ll be in touch. You have my email now. Just shoot me a message when they figure Peter’s stuff out, and I’ll bum off some of whatever they’re giving him.”

Then she crept to an open window, and was gone. None of the three teenagers left in her wake knew quite what to do.

“Should I follow her?” Johnny asked. Mary nodded and he blazed off, leaving her and Kitty in the dark together. Neither one spoke for some time.

“So…when we came in you two were…”

“Yeah.” Mary hugged her arms tight and scuffed her shoe on the cement. The rubber squealed petulantly. 

Kitty let the mental image sink in. Then gave a dramatic sigh. “Well you could have done worse. Johnny wasn’t wrong. About her being cute.”

“We’re still the cutest ones though, right?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Mary twitched her nose. “Okay. Cool.”

Johnny came back ten minutes later, bemoaning another face full of webbing and how quickly he had lost the girl after setting out to track her. The three of them were at a loss for how to continue, and disbanded for the night in very low spirits.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was the next night, but for Wolverine it was simply another day on a hunt that had lasted three weeks too long. Until it ceased to be just that.

Logan was, as per his usual, slouching over a half rate beer at a two star bar. Normally at this point he would have been hustling for answers around the pool table, or getting told that his kind weren’t served here, or even chatting up some young thing that caught his eye. But tonight, not as per his usual, his eyes were glued on the television set hoisted in the corner of the roof, set on mute for the news and the sake of the country spewing jukebox. Closed captioning was on, and the headlines streamed across the bottom. 

He took another swallow of his beer as he traced the image splashed on the screen and found it mysteriously more bitter than before.

“’Ey, whoa now,” said some haggard construction jockey, still clad in orange and three sips away from hitting the floor for good. He elbowed Logan in the ribs for his attention. “That’s Spider-Man up there? They sayin’ Spidey’s dead?”

Logan took a tense sip. “Seems like it,” he muttered, his whole being awash with something fierce and ugly. All he could think of was the red-head’s face, streaked with tears as she tried to beat the hell out of him. Come to think of it, he never had learned her real name. If he were the journal writing type she would feature solely as Spidey’s Mouthy Chick. 

“Dayum. It’s the good ones, innit? Always the good ones. You know he went into a fire for Mack’s kid? Pulled the little bugger out. Wasn’t singed or nothing. Pulled him out clean and didn’t take nothing for it.”

“He would,” Logan asserted.

“Always the good ones. Why ain’t no one popped them showboat X-Men yet?”

The worker laid off and Logan was grateful for the solitude. He set down his drink and glowered down at it. He hadn’t taken the girl’s worry too seriously. Staying as far away from the Spider kid as possible, that he took to heart, but he didn’t think much of the pickles he got tangled in. Always seemed like a bit of a joke in the news. When the girl had come running to him he figured it was just her throwing a tantrum. The Parker kid was a stooge but he always could handle himself. He’d proven that much in the few times Logan had fought alongside him.

Dead. Fifteen years old and dead, and Logan had just walked away from the chick. 

He set a bill on the bar and took his leave. His drink, uncharacteristically, was left half full.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Mary got a phone call at eight p.m., she was expecting to be helping Liz or Kong out with Organic Chemistry. Which was a shame, because she was struggling with it too and gnawing on her pen as she tried to make sense of the crystalline hoodoo splattered over the pages of her textbooks. Her concentration was shot and she was still rattled from seeing the fake death reports on Spider-Man when the six o’clock news rolled around. Even having been warned that it was fake this morning, the ominous little hairs at the back of her neck had stood on end and she had asked her Mom to change the channel. S.H.I.E.L.D. might have the right idea, but thugs like Wilson Fisk and Norman Osborn and Otto Octavius knew Peter. Even if he got to change his name, change his address, Peter’s face was still the same. It was a matter of time before someone pointed him out, caught him on an errant camera.

She was hoping the phone call might be one she could steer into pleasant, mundane conversation. She could drag Liz down that road easy if she picked the right TV show to talk about. “Maaaary Jane Watson. How can I help you?”

“MJ?” breathed a girl’s voice.

Mary sat still for a moment, puzzling out the tortured gasping at the other end. “…Jessica?”

“I need…Oh god…”

She was at attention immediately. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Downtown. I’m hiding in the laundry room, I just…” She broke off into hyperventilation. 

“Address, address!” Mary insisted, slamming down her paper and pen. When she had what she needed, she hung up and lied to her Mother about helping Kitty Pryde with her homework.

Better to use someone whose number her mother didn’t have. If she called the Allans and found out Mary wasn’t there, life just might be over for Sneaky Times Mary Jane Watson.

She arrived downtown and parted somewhat painfully with her available cash for the taxi that took her. She read the address twice, then the google maps print out three times more, and found it within minutes. Mary entered behind an old Hungarian grandmother with groceries, which she obligingly helped carry to the elevator, then hunted for the laundry room.

It was supposed to be closed by now, that much was apparent, but she found Jessica Drew huddling in the dark behind a washer, clutching at her knees. She had been crying. 

“Oh thank god,” she whimpered at the sight of her. Mary crouched down, keeping a respective distance of a few feet even if it killed her to not hug the girl on sight. Even if it was largely useless, because they both knew that if her power started up a couple of feet weren’t going to prevent anything.

“What happened?”

“A guy broke into my apartment.” Jessica sniffled. “I was just sitting there watching TV. And this guy, I think he lives on my floor, I don’t know. He just kicked the door in. And he was just like…gone. It wasn’t like before. He was just crazy. Zombie mode. He was trying to come for me and he broke into my place to do it. He didn’t say a word.”

“Oh my god…” Mary shivered, but not half so badly as the girl in front of her was. Jessica looked as if she had seen a ghost. “Jessica, did he—“

“No. I beat his butt. He’s up there now. Probably still out cold. I have his powers, you know.” She made a wretched face and wiped at her eyes and looked anywhere but at Mary. “It’s just that he _broke in._ And he wasn’t saying anything. It wasn’t like this before, people acted like themselves before. They didn’t try to hurt me unless they would have already done that. Nobody tried to force their way into my place. And even when I was going to the elevator, this other dude – like fifty years older than me, this other guy tries to yank my arm out of my socket, get me out of the elevator and tries to claw off my shirt while I’m still wearing it, and I had to clock him to get out of there. No one’s been this psycho before. I’m really scared.”

Mary shook her head. She chanced creeping a little closer, even if Jessica curled up tighter. “P-“ she started, but hastily corrected herself. The twinge of hurt on the girl’s face was brief, but Mary caught it all the same. “Jessica, I’m so sorry, but…you’ve been hiding there this whole time, right? You told Peter you were hiding away.”

“Yeah,” the girl nodded forlornly.

“Look, maybe this was like, an eruption. Maybe it just built up. I think it’s one of those things, maybe it’s gotta _release._ ”

Jessica twisted uncomfortably. Neither was happy with the notion. “Did that happen to Peter?”

“No,” Mary said, then frowned. “Well. Maybe. I don’t know, maybe the same thing happened with the antidote and that’s why it stopped working. Before then he just…let’s just say he’d had worse luck avoiding people than you.”

Jessica buried her face in her knees. “So what? I should just _do it_ with someone to get it over with?”

“No!” Mary jutted forward and wrapped her arms around the girl, welcome or not. Jessica went stiff, but only tremored in her grasp and wrapped her fingers tight around the bottom of Mary’s jacket. Mary snuggled close, curling her legs around Jessica’s and whispered into her hair. “No. You shouldn’t. You should never.”

“Okay.”

Mary took a deep breath. “You need to go to Nick Fury.”

Jessica went deceptively still. “Ugh…”

“I know, but Jessica, what’s the next time going to be like? Where are you going to be? Who’s going to be the guy coming at you?”

“Or girl.”

“Or girl. Weirdly enough.” Mary patted her back. “I’ll call him for you.”

Jessica sniffled and pushed out a snicker. “You’re such a gent.”

“I do my best.” 

She dialed the contact given to her by S.H.I.E.L.D., just special for this current Peter Parker predicament, and rattled off the most polite and sparing version of Jessica’s situation she could concoct to the agent on the other end. When she was done Jessica had pulled away from her some and was sobering up to reason.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be hugging.”

“Yeah,” said Mary. “Sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

“Sit on the other side of the machine. Okay?”

Mary obeyed, sliding into place on the opposite side of the washer and letting Jessica disappear from view. Unwilling to give up completely, however, she shucked her jacket and tossed one end over to Jessica’s feet.

“This is me,” Mary said, clutching the other end tightly. “I’m holding your hand.”

Jessica seemed to be considering the proposal, if she was reading the silence correctly. Or maybe she was just trying to count to five and not let herself lose it to freaky sex powers. Then the jacket went taut and Mary rejoiced to herself.

It only took fifteen minutes for the cavalry to arrive. Neither girl had said another word, a silent truce of awkwardness and deep, pervasive knowledge of the other that strangers should not share. Because they were strangers, at the end of the day, even if Mary lipped off Nick Fury when he said she could not accompany Jessica to the Triskelion and Jessica turned around to grab her hand and squeeze it hard, lock her eyes in a desperate, soul-splitting look before she was carted off to a cell for safekeeping.

At least Peter would have company, Mary told herself doubtfully. Odd company, but company nonetheless. One of the agents offered her a ride back to Queens, which her wallet was very grateful for.

Maybe she would actually get some sleep tonight.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Peter spent most of the time drifting in and out of sleep. They were probably drugging him, he had thought once during the thick haze. It was probably safer for him to sleep. Rest. Maybe he would stop spewing out creepy pheromones if he wasn’t awake.

Except that hadn’t worked out so well with the Punisher. None of them knew about that. He’d mumbled something about it, hoping whatever security camera they had trained on him was recording his voice too, but the words came out jumbled and he fell asleep again midway through the confession.

Some time later consciousness crept back into play, and when Peter blearily batted his eyes at the world there were two people in hazmat suits in the room with him. One was rubbing his arm with a wet cottonball. The other was seated beside his bed and resting a hand on his leg.

“Peter?” the seated one said, the voice tinny but familiar. 

“Aunt May,” he croaked. He limply batted for her hand, or any part of her, really, with the arm the second person had been attending to. The second figure gently grasped it again and put it back down before he accidentally swatted his Aunt’s suit loose. “Why’re you…yellowed?”

“Can I take off the suit?” his Aunt asked, deferring to the standing figure who seemed to be paused in thought.

“You’ve never been affected, right?” the person mused. A woman, even if the sound was fuzzy Peter was sure it was a woman. 

“Are you serious? _Please_ —“

“Okay. Okay, just be careful.” 

His Aunt was revealed when the dome-like mask was lifted, her eyes watery and her smile tragic. Peter smiled back. It felt wrong. He couldn’t entirely feel his face so he wasn’t sure he was doing it right. “Hey there. There’s my boy.” Aunt May brushed the hair from his sweat ridden forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“’m all fuzzed. Good.” Peter tried to nod but the cast around his neck was too stiff to let his chin dip down far enough. “Can’t feel myself though. All numby numbed up.”

She laughed. “Oh lord. Sweetie, they’ve got you on painkillers.”

“Amongst other things,” added their third wheel. She flicked a needle, then braced his arm. “Hold still.”

“Wassat?” Peter asked, trying to turn his head. The cast continued to impede him, but so did the minor twinge of pain that still leaked through his haze. Aunt May rushed to clutch him by the cheek.

“No no, your neck’s still healing, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

“It’s medicine. Remember that thing Janet Van Dyne gave you, when you got shot by the cops? That healing cocktail?” The woman plunged the needle in as gingerly as she could. Peter felt nothing. He was too busy scrunching up his face and trying to pull his memory banks out of shambles.

“Oh…yeah. The thingie dink. Made it heal faster, ride? …Right?” He made a face and stuck out his tongue. The words kept on fumbling up on him.

The needle withdrew and the hazmat woman patted his arm. “Yep. You’re gonna heal up quick. Maybe not Wolverine quick, but quick.”

“Oh.” Peter paused, grinning. “Who’re you?”

“Carol Danvers. I work with Nick Fury.”

“Oh.” Peter’s smile dropped. “Where’s Nick?”

“Just relax, Peter,” Aunt May cooed. She was petting his hair now. The gesture was appreciated. He could feel the top of his head better than the rest of his body. Maybe it was all localized numbing, but the only part of him that wasn’t hurt was his head. Then he frowned, because that couldn’t be true. Venom hadn’t been that thorough. He wriggled his toes. He could still feel the blanket brushing over them as he did so.

“I’m wigglin’ my toes,” he announced to the room.

“That’s great, Peter. That’s fantastic,” his Aunt said. The other woman fished out another tool from parts unknown, and Aunt May’s smile went tight. She addressed the other woman. “You’re sure – you’re one hundred percent positive—“

“I am if you are.” Danvers kept rubbing his arm. “I told you. It’s for the best.”

“I know. But shouldn’t he at least be warned? He’s barely awake right now. Can’t we talk about this with him?” 

“’m awake,” Peter protested sourly. He looked at the thing in Danvers’ hands. It was a gun with a needle on the end. More antidote. “Hey, that stuff’zzz…that stuff is no good. It doesn’t work good. Tony is stupid.”

“Yes, Tony Stark is very stupid,” Danvers agreed. Somewhat sharply, Peter thought, but he wasn’t so sure because the suit made her voice so weird, like she was speaking through a fan. “Mrs. Parker, he needs this. You need this. It’s a fresh start.”

“A fresh start,” his Aunt parroted. She was crying now. Peter frowned some more and tried to roll over for a hug but his stupid body was about as mobile as a sack of bricks. “You think he’ll forgive me?”

“He’s your kid. That’s what families do.”

“Love you, Aunt May,” Peter offered quietly. He was getting really tired again. And tired of _getting_ tired. His sleeping hours were off the charts, and he wanted to talk to his Aunt some more. 

Danvers was pushing that other needle in and Peter was just trying to keep his eyes open, focused lazily on his Aunt. She sniffled and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I love you too, Peter. So much.”

He drifted away again. Shoot, he didn’t mention the thing about sleeping not stopping the wonky powers again, didn’t he? Next time. There would be a next time.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

While Jessica Drew was being herded into the overbearing towers of the Triskelion, head bowed low and huddling close to Nick Fury in spite of all prior protests, there was a power surge and subsequent shortage in the west building. There was a panic, naturally, as that area housed some of their trademark super powered criminals. Minor ones, but reckonable forces nonetheless.

Jessica was shunted into a holding room as teams scrambled to cover, and found Electro bouncing off the walls trying to make a break for it. He was apprehended by Captain America with little fuss. None of the other prisoners got loose. No one could quite figure how Electro had escaped, and the man was knocked out too coldly for questioning. 

When the girl was settled at last into proper accommodations, the pending fiasco having been resolved in minutes, a medic was sent to check on Peter Parker and she found his room over turned and scorched black in telling places. Two sets of thoroughly charred remains were there, one on the floor where the bed toppled and the other fused to a chair. Peter was nowhere to be found. Neither was his Aunt, who had been scheduled to sit in and visit him at the time.

The whole of S.H.I.E.L.D. went into a frenzy, and Electro was upgraded to higher security holdings.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Peter was surprised to find himself waking to the hum of the road. The beeps and soft hisses of medical machinery were utterly absent. He was bandaged and stitched still, healing well, but there was a new restraint fastening him to the seat. His eyes fluttered open and he found himself inside an unfamiliar car. Aunt May was at the wheel.

“You’re awake,” she said tightly. Her eyes flicked to him and back to the road just as hastily, a rigidity in her posture Peter had never seen before. Baffled, Peter looked behind them for an escort vehicle and saw there were none. His neck brace was gone, though it still hurt some to move.

“Aunt May? What’s going on?”

“Let me…” She trailed off, ducking her head to check the street ahead. It was night, and the neighborhood was a nearly deserted one. She pulled into the parking lot of a darkened flower shop and shut the car off, drawing her hands to her mouth and breathing heavily. “Oh dear. I don’t know.”

“What is it?” Peter queried, panic waking him quicker than a morning cup of joe. He shifted forward and the seat belt dug into his stitches. The pain was minimal: that Danvers lady hadn’t been lying about the medical cocktail. If he didn’t imagine all of that.

She looked him in the eye. Then, lips pursed, she fished out a paper envelope from the mug holder and passed it to him. It had been torn previously, and inside were a pair of plane tickets to England. One way.

Peter’s mind was already working on full speed but speech was slow to follow. “…Aunt May, what is this?”

“It’s an option,” she provided. Her fingers pressed to her lips again and she flattened herself against the back of her seat. “They gave me an option. And I’m…I’m not sure if I want to take it anymore. Sweetie, they gave me a new antidote.”

He regarded her stonily. “And they just let us go? Without testing it?”

“It’s not like the others. Peter, it’s an antidote for everything. To make you human again.”

The night quiet turned all consuming. Peter and his Aunt were caught in a deadlock of stares. Peter was the first to break, eyes darting to the dim street outside the windshield. There was no one outside. “You mean…”

“You won’t be Spider-Man anymore.”

A tense lump gestated in his throat, and did not disappear when he tried to swallow it down. “Oh.”

“They said it would be too hard…too difficult for you to stay here if you don’t have your abilities. There are people who know who you are and could find you. So if you – if we do it, we have to leave. And we can’t tell anyone, and we’ll have to get new names. They offered to help with that too.”

He said nothing. Peter thumbed the tickets and stared at the codes, the seat numbers and the fussy print detailing proper carry on procedures. His Aunt watched him closely. 

“I wanted to…I wanted to wait. To talk to you about it, but it just wasn’t...” Aunt May pressed her fingers to her mouth, blinking, pearly tears trickling out from her eyes. “Peter, I am so sorry.”

Peter startled. A passing car illuminated them with frigid light, and then they were alone again. “What do you mean?” The way his Aunt immediately recoiled, facing the window to steady herself, he began to get worried. “Aunt May?”

“In the Triskelion. It was given to me there. The woman who gave it to me, she already injected you. Not even an hour ago.” She let herself turn again and brushed at the steady stream that rolled down her cheeks. “Oh lord, Peter, you were still unconscious. And you were so badly hurt. That thing savaged you. He hurt you, and for a moment I thought that the only way I could make sure you were never hurt again was to – Peter, I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly selfish.”

Trembling, he regarded his Aunt with eyes so wide the air began to burn them. The stitches in his shoulder gave tiny pangs of sympathy. “You let her?”

“Yes.” She sniffled and ripped out several tissues from the box in the cup holder. “Now I wish I didn’t, but I did. I wanted her to do it, Peter, and I wanted to steal you away, where none of these people could find you. Look at me! I am stealing you away. Right now, in this car. I just…I don’t know how much more of Spider-Man I can take. Look at what’s happening to you.” With a somber tenderness she took his hand in hers. “My baby boy. They hurt you, and they haven’t stopped hurting you.”

He tugged his hand free. The hurt emblazoned across her face, her shimmering eyes, would normally have broken him in two. “You just… _let_ her take away my powers? While I was _sleeping?_ ”

Aunt May had nothing to say to that. She covered her mouth again and retreated to press her back stiffly into her seat, clenching her eyes shut. She was a queasy, lilac pale. 

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Peter spat.

“I’ve failed you.” Aunt May hiccuped. “I can’t…I don’t know what to say except that I’m sorry, Peter, I’m so, so very sorry…”

A rapping on the passenger window spooked the both of them so badly that Aunt May jumped an inch off her seat and Peter whipped around with a fist raised. His eyes landed on Kitty Pryde. She was bent over and knocking on the window, in casual clothes, fright drawn through her brow and gritted teeth. Alarmed, Peter shot another look to his Aunt. 

“Isn’t that your mutant friend?” Aunt May said warily. “How did she find us?”

“I don’t know,” Peter whispered. Kitty rapped more urgently, and he rolled down the window. “Kitty? What are you doing here? How did you find—“

“No time. Peter, there’s an emergency. We need you.” She gave a short nod to his Aunt. “Sorry, but we really do need him. Like now.”

“He’s not going,” Aunt May interjected sharply.

“What are you even saying?” Peter’s nose wrinkled. “You and who? Kitty, we’re just coming out of the Triskelion, seriously, how did you even find us? What’s going on?”

“Pete, am I your girlfriend, or am I your girlfriend?” With presumptuous precision she reached inwards and pulled the handle herself, swinging out the door. “Get out and come with me. There’s something really bad going on with the X-Men. Jean called me. We need all the help we can get.”

Peter studied her, agape. He did not come out. He did not unbuckle his seat belt. He could sense his Aunt tensing behind him as, he assumed, she reached the same conclusion he had.

“Actually,” he said slowly, “you _aren’t_ my girlfriend anymore.”

Kitty’s face went tight. Her mouth was like a zipper, lips crunched together with fine wrinkles and the line between them ruler straight. “Well. Would you like me to be?”

Peter scowled and bent back, kicking out from the passenger seat and slamming her in her middle. With a yelp she flew backwards, tripping over a parking block and rolling on the pavement. “Ugh, you little twat! You beat on all your chicks? No wonder everyone hates you!”

“You’re not Kitty!” he yelled. His Aunt started the ignition and Peter scrambled to get the door shut. 

The imposter seethed, whipping a strange looking gun from the back of her jeans and taking aim. “No shit, Sherlock!”

She fired, a white light signalling an energy blast as opposed to bullets. Unfortunately for her they were already speeding away, the shot shattering the backseat window and inviting in a seige of wind that drummed at their ears as they fled. Aunt May drove straight and did not look back.

Peter’s heartbeat overtook the hum of the engine. Pounding. Then there was rattling in his head, and Peter was distinctly aware that the sound was coming from outside his ears and didn’t match his heartbeat at all.

Rattling. In his head.

“My head is –“ he started, casting a look at his Aunt because if what she said was true, then either he had sprouted some kind of a tumor or…

He swiveled, looking in the rear view mirror to see a man, far larger and broader than any real man should be, with a metal helmet like a dome that covered his head completely. The thudding was his footsteps, running up from behind towards their car. His spider senses swelled to a scream and May heard it then too, the car rattling with the sound. 

Peter gaped. “Is that the _Juggernaut?_ ”

“Oh my god,” Aunt May whispered. 

She punched the gas pedal with the tenacity of a Nascar champion but it was too late. In a split second the world had toppled over as their car was hoisted upward, the headlights pointing futilely into the night sky. Aunt May was screaming. The metal of the trunk squealed as it was ravaged by the ten ton grip. Peter didn’t question his instincts, or even the strength with which he tore his seat belt off one-handed and did the same for his Aunt. She was still screaming as he took her by the waist, poised himself, and sent a kick into the roof that made it fly off like a frisbee. Lucky thing, too, because if he had to work around a puncture they wouldn’t be getting out before they were inevitably slammed into a building. 

Which was exactly what the Juggernaut was planning. He swung the car back and heaved it at the brick and mortar minimart adjacent, but Peter and Aunt May were already out. He had no choice but to break both of their falls on the pavement with his still battered body. Aunt May tumbled on top of him, but was on her knees in a hurry and trying to lift him to his feet.

“PETER!” she screamed. In that second they shared a wordless, baffled exchange together, where they gaped at the impossibility of what had just happened and the conversation they had just moments before. 

Then it had to shatter, because his Aunt was looking back in horror at the monstrosity that towered over them and Peter had to do something about it. The Juggernaut stomped closer. Pain was a prevalent and debilitating factor; Peter knew that at least three of his stitches had ripped loose on impact. Yet nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to touch his Aunt May. 

His one arm was still somewhat broken. Less broken than before thanks to the finest S.H.I.E.L.D. medicines, but still next to useless. He had no webbing. He had no back up, and he was operating at half capacity at best. Their best chance was his size and speed. Peter snagged his Aunt, fumbling to put her over his shoulder and darted between the man’s legs (Maneuver #633 on a list of moves he never thought he would have to use), ducking low and panting hard. He kept running. The Juggernaut gave pursuit. He aimed for an alley, hoped for a thin passage somewhere soon, or a sharp turn off. Somewhere he could slip into while still carrying his Aunt and lose the Juggernaut.

Why was the goddamn Juggernaut after him, again? He hadn’t been an ex of Kitty’s, had he?

His spider senses spiked, and dropping down from above with a heavy thud was the feral looking blonde man from two weeks ago. Logan’s buddy. Sabretooth, as the internet called him, Peter having done his research after Tony Stark warned him about the Brotherhood being in town. Peter skidded to a halt.

“Boo,” said the man, curling his fingers to highlight the wicked claws at the end. 

Aunt May screamed and slapped lightly at his back. The Juggernaut had caught up from behind, a gargantuan shadow blocking the light from the alley. Peter sweated. He looked up.

He leaped for the sky, ricocheting between the walls of the two buildings as he made his way up, up.

The Juggernaut struck a wall just as Peter made to land on it, and the whole thing crumbled inward. Both Peter and his Aunt screamed. The Juggernaut caught Peter by the leg, dangling him in midair, and he only barely caught his Aunt by the wrist before she hit the ground. Her feet, kicking wildly, were scraping the pavement.

“Jumpy little shit, isn’t he?” growled Sabretooth. He strode closer, smirking up at Peter with pearly, glinting teeth. 

“They got jumping spiders in Japan,” provided the Juggernaut. 

“The fuck does that have to do with anything?”

Peter gritted his teeth and let go of his Aunt. She yelped as she landed jarringly on her feet, shaking. Peter twisted upwards in a flash, swinging himself towards the Juggernaut’s face with the world’s most impressive dangling sit up and thrust two fingers into the narrow slit of his helmet. He didn’t get the bare eye, the man had blinked in time, but Juggernaut wailed in pain anyway and let go of Peter’s leg. Peter dropped, rolling, leaping upright and pushing his Aunt out past the Juggernaut’s legs. 

“ _Go!_ I’ll take them!”

His Aunt hesitated, giving him a wild, frenzied look. But she listened. She had no choice. Her shoes came off, the pumps abandoned as she ran in her stockings back out into the street and out of sight.

“Big words,” drawled Sabretooth, “for a banged up little tyke like you. What are you gonna do, Short Stuff, bleed on us?”

“I just might. You’ll catch what I have. It’s very nasty,” Peter snapped back. The Juggernaut, infuriated and still keening over his wounded eye, took a swipe at Peter. He ducked and jetted into the rubble. “Really, you’d be best off hopping on back to your cozy little mutant lair, get yourself a cup of cocoa. Maybe do something about that hair. Set yourself apart from other evil doers and have a good hair cut for a change. Lord knows you’re all pretty unkempt.”

“Why is his Auntie streaking off in the other direction?” called Kitty’s voice. The double was at the mouth of the alley now, scowling and brandishing her gun. “Sabretooth. No witnesses.”

He grunted. “You take care of it. Me and Spidey, we’re going to have a little tussle, aren’t we kiddo?”

“Take _care_ of it.”

Sabretooth growled, but obeyed. He sprinted out. Peter shot after him. “No!”

The Juggernaut slapped him out of the running, sending Peter rocketing into the rubble. He cartwheeled bonelessly and landed on his back. He struggled upright, ignoring the pain, heart thudding. He had to get to his Aunt, he had to get out of here. 

Kitty was standing over him with the barrel of her gun grazing his chest. His spider senses were going haywire. “Sweet dreams, Spider-Man.”

There was a flash of white. The world winked out of being.


	11. The Guest of Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick Fury discovers a number of unpleasant things, and Peter meets his captors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter!
> 
> I decided to change up the summary a bit so I threw in a quote from an earlier chapter. Just because I was looking at it again and I was unhappy that it didn't convey much of anything aside from the fact that this is a pheromone fic, when it's actually not PWP at all. ~~It's actually Porn With Too Much Plot~~ I couldn't think of how to express the plot without either giving stuff away or taking out the little blurb I had originally, which I still like, so I went for the depressing quote route. Might give off a better vibe that there's a lot of other consequences to the porn.
> 
> Also just in case some readers aren't familiar with the Ultimate universe (most of you seem to be but just making sure): a lot of awesome characters got personality revamps in Ultimate Marvel. Some of these were cool. But a lot of them just turned into giant assholes. Captain America is one of them. Not too badly in this chapter, but yeah no adorable sassy dork Steve here. I am sorry. :(

The very moment the local authorities reported a S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle at the site of a crash, totaled beyond repair and next to a building with half the wall smashed in, Nick Fury sent a team to investigate. He spent the wait time with his fingers laced, unmoving, waiting for the phone to ring or the comm to buzz, and when they finally did he was ready to explode on whoever happened to call. In a turn of events that might just have bordered on miraculous, he got exactly what he was hoping for: trapped inside the car was May Parker’s purse. 

Shortly after that the deep fried corpses were submitted to an emergency examination. The morgue found fillings in teeth that should have been cavity free, and it became apparent that the bodies were Jane and John Does and not Parkers at all. Search teams were deployed. The building was put under full sweep. Most of the Ultimates were called in, off duty, and ordered to different Burroughs. A perimeter was discreetly set around the city.

But even if the Parkers hadn’t been barbecued by a half-rate super villain, they were still not under his roof. In fact, they were probably dead all over again.

Nick Fury slammed his fist into the sink. The thing shuddered, but still operated with the smooth functionality it had been designed to. Everything in the building was double, triple reinforced. With the amount of damages it could potentially take as a prime terrorist target, combined with the traffic of mutants and genetic alterations that walked through the halls, it was all quite necessary. 

Except when it counted the most. As usual. Nick Fury splashed the water onto his face. It did little to cool or refresh him whatsoever. Whatever serenity he had on reserve he mustered now, wiping his face dry and returning to the surveillance centre outside. A small crowd waited for him there. Stark and Rogers, a few of his top agents working with trackers already on the move outside the facility. Hawkeye, the Wasp, and Thor were leading the search.

Rogers was eying the monitors impassively. He had been told to stay put, being a soldier with no flight capability and a penchant for attacking problems in close proximity. Not optimal when dealing with Parker’s current situation. “We need more men on the ground. I can be out in five minutes.”

“You won’t be. Stay put,” Nick said smoothly. Rogers raised him a brow but he paid it no mind. 

“I’m willing to follow orders when they make some damn sense, Fury.”

“I wouldn’t be keeping you and Stark here unless I had a damn sensible reason, now would I?” Nick growled. Of the three they had deployed Janet was mostly harmless as a woman. Thor could stick to the air and use his crackerjack god powers to stop shenanigans from afar, and Hawkeye was a sniper and a bowman. He was already debating throwing in whatever Black Ops he could spare – particularly the Lensherr twins, if for nothing other than the speed with which Pietro could conduct a search and the scope of Wanda’s powers. In ten minutes, Nick himself would suit up. 

Stark was the only other person in the room who was in on the big secret, and the only one who looked distinctly green. It screamed suspicious, which was something a man like Stark just didn’t do. “Are you going to need a Fisherman’s Friend over there Tony, or is there something you know we don’t?”

“Just under the weather, Nick,” he rattled smoothly, not once looking Nick in the eye. Contrary to what he told Rogers, Stark had volunteered to stay behind on his own, feeling it prudent since both he and Nick knew which way he swung when it came to the kid’s powers. 

Stark wiped sweat from his brow and proposed a new angle. “Look, I’m just saying. Both the kid and his Aunt are missing. Do you really think it’s so unrealistic that she might have panicked and taken him out of here? If you recall, she was throwing a hell of a mama bear act the moment we brought her in.”

Rogers thumbed his chin. “And how would she do that? Where would she get the bodies?”

“An inside man.”

Nick’s patience had been teetering on a wafer thin line from the moment Parker came in. Part of that he attributed to the bullshit powers he had magicked up in the last few weeks, but his temper had doubled into a fully fledged monster in the wake of his disappearance and Nick knew, deep down, that he would be just as furious had there been no emotional tampering at all. Peter Parker was not the average super powered brat that Nick spent his time cleaning up after. Life would be so much easier if he was.

“And what god-fearing, paid employee of mine would in their right mind send out a kid who is not only wrapped from ass to nose in bandages, but holed up in the highest security and the most solitary confinement S.H.E.I.L.D. has to offer, out into New York city without permission to do so?”

Rogers frowned and mouthed, “Solitary confinement?” to Stark, who only shrugged uneasily as he worked up a counter to Nick’s argument. 

“Look at it, Nick. The tapes show nothing. There’s no sign of forced entry or exit anywhere in the building. It screams inside job.”

Nick squinted at the screens. “Check out what that Pryde girl’s been up to. No – the X-Men.” The computer junkies set up a roar of typing, keyboards gone ablaze.

“You think they would pull a stunt like this?” Rogers inquired.

“They just might. Parker’s run with them in the past. The Fantastic Four too. They might be too squeamish to plant bodies but they’re creative where it counts. And run through the database as well for anyone and everyone the kid’s fought, no matter how bottom of the barrel. Everyone. Whether they’re incarcerated, where they lurk, what brand of toothpaste they use. I need up to date dossiers, now!”

The door creaked open, and Danvers strode in. She was straightening her tie but was otherwise impeccable. She had been officially off duty, her weekend having started at approximately noon yesterday, and was called in unawares when the Parker situation had taken several turns for the worse. “So I take one day off and we’ve already got two casualties?”

Nick paused. That was odd. 

“Someone, pull up the feed for Danvers,” The tape played again, and he watched as her eyes went wide at the wreck. No sound accompanied the shots of the car, sans roof and with the trunk crumpled like a paper fan, and then the alley nearby, where the wall had been smashed in and a surly store owner was lamenting his loss on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and scowling. Nick provided a stiff and embittered narration. 

“Electro broke loose earlier, caused a ruckus, and Cap detained him. We found two extra crispy fried bodies in Parker’s room. But they were plants. The morgue worked them over and their dental records don’t match Parker’s, or his Aunts. And not more than an hour ago the police responded to a 911 call about a disturbance, some kind of a fight. And lo and behold, there’s one of our cars. It’s got the Aunt’s purse and a couple of tickets to Europe. So, they were planning an escape, and someone helped them out.”

Danvers’ eyes flickered over the damage, the catastrophic wreck of a car still lingering in on the screens. Her mouth was parted, and she was pale. Nick narrowed his eye and let it rove over her slowly. Calculating. “…But?”

“But then someone _else_ made sure they didn’t get to escape. Someone big. Possibly Venom again, but it could be anyone. There is not a single trace left behind on that car of who wrecked it. No blood either, which means they could still be alive.”

Danvers gripped the back of the nearest chair. She worked her way into impassivity. “Who have we got out looking?”

“Everyone who’s not here,” Stark provided, and Danvers twitched just slightly at the sound of his voice. “There’s a perimeter. Everyone’s on the lookout, but no one has seen a damn thing.” 

Nick counted to three and turned to face his team. Tony had slumped into a chair, nursing a bourbon and wincing at the aftertaste. Rogers was stoic save for that perplexed frown he reserved in lieu of pouting, having been unaware there was an issue at all until Electro had broken out. (Remind him to give that one a personal working over the moment he woke up.) And lastly there was Carol Danvers, with a curious twinge in her brow. She hadn’t been able to erase her frown entirely. Her hands were now in her pockets. Hiding, Nick thought, because there was still an imprint in the leather back of the chair where her fingers had choked it into a perfect mold of her hand. She was studying the screens intently. 

Very odd.

“Techies, keep at it. You three, come with me.”

Though puzzled, they all acquiesced without delay. The four of them traversed the halls, agents bustling around and past them with a dancer’s precision, not daring to jostle any one of them. Nick led the trio into a smaller, more private room. Soundproof. More security.

“Secret clubhouse meeting?” Stark asked, arching a brow. 

“You might say that.” Nick gestured for them all to sit, a circular table at the centre of the room serving as their centerpiece, manned by utilitarian chairs. There was a coffee maker in the corner on a shelf, the sole amenity in the otherwise barren meeting room. Nick himself chose to not join them. He rapped his fingers on the table. “Care to explain, Danvers?”

“Explain what?”

“Why you let them go.”

The two men, in a nearly cartoonish take, glanced at each other before fixing Carol with scrutinous, bewildered gazes.

Danvers did not move an inch in her seat. “Pardon me?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re above that,” Nick pressed. “Or you would be, if you could keep a better reign on your white knuckling.”

She curled her lip and shook her head in disbelief. “What are you – geez Nick, is it a crime to be stunned at how far everything’s gone to shit? They didn’t exactly strike me as the loose a felon and plant fake bodies type of people. Kind of the opposite. And then they got Godzilla stomped during their getaway? That’s a little much to come back to work to, so sue me.”

“I’ve been at this a long time, kid,” Nick said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. Danvers flinched. “I know how to read people. Really read them. Smart move using Electro. You get to knock out the power and plant a couple of charred up bodies without worrying about a picture perfect match. You came in talking about casualties when you should have been asking about escapees. I know you didn’t plan the car wreck. It took you by surprise, didn’t it? You were gaping like it was the fourth of July.”

“Are you serious?” Stark barked. “Carol. You were in the know.”

For some time, she said nothing. Her eyes closed shut and her teeth were ever so slightly bared, a seething resignation. Nick could feel the muscles seizing to rock solid under his palm. No one could take their eyes off of her.

At last, the silence was broken and the pretence went with it.

“And you know what I know, Tony? Fury?” She said darkly. She opened her eyes and set them darkly upon Nick, who gave no particular care about her death glare. He’d been on the receiving end of worse. “The kid’s a liability. And not just now. He’s been a liability for a long, long time. Now he’s just a menace.”

“So the first thing you do is set that menace loose?” was Nick’s scathing assessment. “Brilliant fucking deduction, Danvers.”

“I’m not an idiot, I gave him an out. I gave his Aunt a fix.”

Stark was out of his seat. “Sorry, what fix? The antidote wasn’t working. That was the whole reason we brought him here!”

“Antidote? What the blazes are you—“

Carol thrust her shoulder free of Nick’s grip, but made no move to escape. “Butt out, Rogers. And yeah, your antidote was a bust. I’m talking about a _fix._ I went above you. I went to Reed Richards.” Stark looked flabbergasted. She let that slap to the face sting for a good moment before continuing. “And I didn’t just get a fix for the new thing. I got a fix for everything. What Osborn did, whatever shit he’s gained since then – the works. I got him to make me a gene cleanser, and I gave it to his Aunt.”

If Carol Danvers believed in a God, she should have been thanking him that Nick Fury was loathe to fill out the paperwork he’d be obliged to if he strangled her on the spot. “A gene cleanser? A fucking gene cleanser? You idiot!” She rose then, squaring Nick in the eye as she twisted out of her seat. Rogers and Stark had both turned to statues behind her. “Congratulations on commissioning what could be the beginning of another mother fucking genocide! _And_ for getting it from a source we cannot and will never control!”

Tony, for his part, was obliging himself to keep reason in the mix. Not bad for a man who was sweating bullets. “You think Richards would sell—“

“We are in the business of worst case scenarios, goddammit! And it always comes to that, doesn’t it?”

“It’s specific to Parker,” Danvers countered hotly. “I brought him a sample! And yes, I am aware of what kind of bullshit this could cause, but did you honestly believe that no one would ever succeed in making it? There’s already numerous factions around the world trying to cook up an anti-mutant vaccine!”

Nick slammed a hand on the table. It was wholly unsatisfying, even with the booming thud he made. “We could have delayed it – could have controlled it, if it had come from us first and not from a barely legal prodigy who is, quite frankly, too eager to put his fingers in every pot there is! And I don’t give a shit if it’s special order for the kid. If he whipped up a serum that quick, how long do you think it would take Stretcho to cook up a universal batch?”

“Why now?” Rogers prompted, “Why Parker? He’s hardly a case for a gene wipe. The kid makes a mess, but he’s not a terrorist.” Tony shot him a tense stare. It only rankled him further. “For God’s sake, what is it that you’re all not telling me? _Is_ he a terrorist?” 

“If there ever was a case that needed it, Nick…” Danvers pushed, ignoring Rogers entirely. 

“Not your decision to make,” Nick spat. “Not to mention that if Richards fucked it up, it could kill him. If he isn’t already dead because he got ambushed in your car, after your shit serum zapped him clean of powers, by something that could crush a Chevy like an accordian!”

She flung her arms wide and rose to shouting. “Dammit Nick, I did what I thought had to be done! He is fifteen fucking years old! He had no place in those tights to begin with! He needed a ten year time out before he could even consider coming back in business, but now we both know that won’t be an option anyway! What were you going to do? Throw him in a cell for life and pray it didn’t get worse? Guess what? It was _still fluctuating._ Who knows what he could have become a month from now. A year!”

“Carol, for someone who never met the kid, you sure as hell went out of your way to do him a favor. Even if you blew it.” Nick crossed his arms. Partly as a show of authority, but also to hold himself back. Rein in the urge to throttle the woman and roar until his throat burst. “Call me crazy, but you sneaking around under my nose, commissioning Richards, running your very own Underground Railroad? That’s way out of line for you. You never were a bleeding heart, not even for little kids. So I’m wondering: is this some kind of cockamie mutiny you’re throwing here?”

“I didn’t do it to spite you, Fury,” Danvers muttered. “I did it because of _him._ ”

Then her slender finger was pointed not at Nick, or any unnamed figure in the shadows. The accusation lay solely on Tony Stark. A worry wrinkle crossed his brow. “Pardon me?”

“You’re supposed to be a genius, Tony,” Danvers gritted her teeth. “You knew what was happening. So why on Earth would you put yourself in room, alone, with Peter Parker?”

The silence that followed belonged to the wake of a grenade. Nick’s pulse shot into overkill, as if there were real bullets whizzing past his head and not just the horrendous revelations Carol Danvers was dragging to light. Stark’s eyes had gone saucer wide. Something akin to actual anger rise in the CEO’s voice. “Carol, if you’re implying –“

“Oh, I’m not implying. I don’t have to.” Her sneer was as bitter as bile. “I saw how you were reacting when he came in here. You were sweating like a sinner in church. So I did a little digging. You were the one that hauled him out of Hell’s Kitchen. You took him into your office, just the two of you, and settled in for a nice little chat. Isn’t that what happened? And all this while you were working on the antidote? What kind of a man does that?”

Stark was frantic as he responded. “I did not plan that! It was a miscalculation, Carol!”

“But you fucked him, didn’t you?” 

Rogers, who had been watching the events unfold with a worsening piss scowl, was sent flushing red and slack jawed. “You _what?!_ ”

By contrast Stark was now ashen gray, eyes trained on Danvers in absolute terror. If he had retorts or alibis they had all abandoned him, his mouth ajar him as he cast around for sympathy at both of the men. Nick’s fist suffered a tremor. Rogers was exchanging disbelief for abhorration as the seconds ticked by and nobody turned to tell him it was only poor phrasing. 

Danvers, suddenly free of the bullseye and strapping Tony down in her stead, was snarling like a dog as she threw him more bait. “I don’t hear any denials, Stark.”

Rogers swept in. Normally a cool head guided the man, but his antiquated sensibilities still nipped at his heels long after he’d been defrosted and debriefed on the liberal ways of the twenty first century. He seized Tony by the lapels and lifted him from the floor, teeth gritted. “A child? A _child?!_ You sick, depraved—“

Nick had condoned about all he was ready to condone in one day. He snatched Rogers by the wrist and growled, “Drop him.”

“You’re letting this pass?! First Wanda and Pietro, now this?!”

“I would really appreciate you knowing the whole story before you decide to strangle me,” Tony added somewhat breathlessly. Carol scoffed. “And that includes you, Missy.”

It only infuriated Rogers more, the rims of his ears burning with the power of it, and Nick had to move quick before Tony Stark went sailing through the wall and they had a new body to bury. He pushed harder on the man’s wrists and used far more volume than necessary. “It’s the whole reason why he was here, Cap. Parker’s sprouted the world’s shittiest superpower and he has no control over it whatsoever.” Rogers made to interject, his expression contorting with the absurdity of the claim, but Nick gave him no chance. “People rape him. Any man he comes into contact with has a fifty-fifty chance of getting mind-screwed into raping him.”

“It’s not entirely—“ Stark began, but a duo of frigid glares shut his mouth. Rogers was too busy processing the revelation to join in. It seemed altogether too much to handle.

“You’re saying…you’re saying that he’s…”

“Developed an extremely powerful but involuntary hypnosis,” Stark deigned to supply, even as Nick and Danvers carved him to ribbons with their eyes. “One that not only affects the people around him, but himself. He doesn’t know what triggers it, he can’t stop what happens, and neither can anyone who is affected. And that is precisely why I, for one, am all for finding him before whatever wrecked the car gets under his influence.”

Danvers’ lip curled. “What, jealous?”

Then Rogers did drop Stark, but only because he was thoroughly stunned and Stark had slammed a hard hand into his face. The billionaire used his newfound freedom to round on Danvers. “You know that is not what happened!”

“Well then, how do you explain why having samples from someone who’s been on the _other end_ was so incredibly important to your research?!” Carol was keeping a furious but otherwise impeccable game face, save for a bead of blood squeezing out from the end of her fist. Her nails had to be gouging her palm. “I went through your files. You made a big damn stink about having blood samples from a recently affected specimen. Shucks Tony, where on earth would a swell fella like you find some of those? You fucking pig!”

Stark flung his arms out, jabbing a finger at her face as if to accuse her of the same crimes.“After! After it happened, Carol! Check the dates, the times! Not a single note was made about getting affected samples until after it happened!”

“Horse shit!” she countered.

“And do you know why? Because I was not, I repeat, was NOT, about to ask the kid to go let someone else screw him for the sake of research I might not even need!”

“Then why did you _let_ yourself—“

“I DON’T KNOW, ALL RIGHT?!” Raving mad, a state completely foreign to most who hadn’t seen Stark at his lowest binges and the towers of bottles he left in his wake, he was alternately clutching his head and brandishing his arms with a manic energy that promised to knock down anyone who strayed too close. “I’ve lost half that afternoon! Whatever it is that the kid does, it screws with your brain! It ruins you! And it lingers. I’m still feeling it. I could barely watch him come in here. I was standing god knows how many feet above him and I still nearly lost my mind. Forty, fifty feet away, and I could feel my heart pounding in my goddamn ears. It took you all of what, thirty seconds to wheel him in? And one of the women on stretcher duty lost it too, and I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the first time she had laid eyes on the kid. What does that tell you about how strong this thing is? 

“Even before – Nick, even when he first came to us, even after that, I was feeling it. He wouldn’t leave my mind. I barely touched him and I was a goner. I can’t remember everything I said to him when I brought him out of Hell’s Kitchen. I can’t remember everything that happened when we – some of it’s there, but some isn’t. It all seems perfectly normal until it’s over, and then you’re just left spinning your wheels, wondering where the truck that hit you went! And I am willing, one hundred percent, to bet you that anyone else who’s been with him will tell you the same.”

Rogers was likely on the verge of cardiac arrest. Nick thought he might follow him. 

With the entirety of the room turned against him, Stark was growing defiant, surly eyed. His teeth, commercial white even after years under assault of coffee and booze, were bared, his sole defense against the mountainous case set against him. “You people can’t seriously – you know me. I would _never._ ” No one was swayed. Desperation leaked in when he repeated himself, settling his eyes on Nick. “Nick, you know I would never.”

“Wait outside.”

Taken aback, Tony wasted a precious few seconds living out the aftermath of the betrayal. He blinked at the three of them, mouth open. Men of his disposition rarely looked older than they were, exuding arrogance and penchant for Las Vegas sins that could not be tied to the middle aged. But they also rarely looked younger. For just a moment he resembled a kid in college, a kid in high school. Dumbfounded by the deep injustice of life for the first time.

He reclaimed grace quickly, however, as he always did. He did not protest. Stark slipped out of the room without a single word in parting. 

No one breathed any easier for it.

“Look,” Danvers began, and was tossed dirty glares by all. She shrugged it off like a champion. “Say what you want. I did what I believed, in the moment, to be the right decision. The Parker situation was compromised from the get go. If Tony’s not completely full of shit, then he’s been addled from the moment this started. He couldn’t be trusted to come up with a decent solution, and he couldn’t be trusted to not sabotage us in order to get to Parker again. There’s a chance that he might be messing up the antidote on purpose. Even if he doesn’t realize it. And the kid is better off living a normal life as far from New York as possible. I swear to god, I didn’t know jack shit about anyone tailing him, or abducting him. I don’t know what happened after he left the building, and for that part? I _am_ sorry.”

“Danvers.” Fury was quiet. The remaining pair went on alert, unsettled by the unexpected switch in tempers. “I’m starting to think the only one here who hasn’t been compromised is Captain America.”

Rogers bristled, but said nothing. Danvers gave him a dirty look and scoffed at the notion. “What are you saying? I wasn’t even near the kid until I was already cutting him loose.”

Nick shook his head and waved a finger, gluing together the bits and pieces as he went and having no patience for interruption. “You paused. When we were leaving his Aunt in observation. You stopped dead in your tracks and you were staring at the kid. The only thing between you and him was glass and about ten feet of floor space.”

“I thought you said only men could—“ Rogers interjected irritably.

“Women get panicked and motherly. Protective,” Nick explained flatly, his eyes narrowed on their sole female companion. “Recent development. Remember what Stark said about the woman wheeling him in? Same thing happened with the one that took him off the scene with Venom. The reporter. Brant. He was telling me about it on the ride over.”

“What?” Danvers shook her head. “Come on. You don’t seriously think I got a whiff of that. You have to be in close proximity.”

“You said you looked at the reports. The full effects are unknown. There might be physical factors, but if Stark isn’t lying about the mental effects then we have to consider telepathy too. You ever heard of Xavier getting stopped up by a closed door?”

She faltered. Finally. Dizzied and eyes jittery, bouncing back and forth between imagined marks on the table, Danvers leaned down for support and pressed her palm to her forehead. “You’re saying he’s been fucking with me, too?”

“Not on purpose.” Nick crossed his arms. “I’m affected. There’s a protective component. Some people are just drawn to defend him. By whatever means they have.”

“Whatever means…” Danvers was still lost in her reverie, still transfixed by whatever equations she was reading on the table. 

“I suggest,” Nick said, pulling her upright by the shoulder and forcing her to meet his eye, “if you _do_ want to keep your job, that you get Reed Richards over here A.S.A.P., and you get yourself tested. If I’m right and you’ve been hit, you’re about as trustworthy as Tony Stark. And I can’t have you on the case.”

Danvers seethed mutinously, but nodded. She might be headstrong, but she was professional and she was more than competent. Usually. “What about the girl? Jessica?”

“Have Reed work on her. Get samples. Make sure he never lays a goddamn eye on her so that we have _someone_ we can trust to do their job. Then, if we ever find Parker alive, we will see what we can do about fixing the mess you’ve made.”

She left without delay, fuming. Rogers approached him now that he had regrouped, nothing but professional from top to toe. “Fury, I’d like to join the search. I know the risks. I can do this.”

Hesitant, Nick started to shake his head in the negative, but Rogers pressed on. “I’ll double up with someone else if I have to. Janet. We can keep each other in line. You’re going to need a good team to take down whatever attacked them. It’s bad strategy, splitting up your forces and keeping good men off the field.”

He harrumphed. “Fine.” And Rogers was gone. Overeager for a fight, now, and probably rightfully so. Nick cracked his neck and sent a prayer to the black abyss where religion and gods might be that they could wrap this up with as little fiasco as possible and find Parker. Preferrably alive, whole, and unmolested. There could be more than one miracle a day. It happened, on occasion.

Upon leaving the room he discovered that Tony Stark had listened quite literally, and was leaning against the wall waiting for him like a soundly scolded little boy. He was staring deeply at the wall opposite, contemplative.

“I’m resigning.” Stark announced gravely. He didn’t quaver, but the deep tone was too much a departure from his regular voice that Nick knew his composure was a farce. One flick and the thin serenity he had affixed on himself would shatter completely. “After Natasha, I don’t think I can take another scandal. Not even just amongst teammates.”

Nick dipped his head low and shot his brows high in a look that better conveyed a sense of “Are you fucking kidding me?” than any profanity laced utterance could do. “That ain’t happening.”

“Don’t bullshit me.” Stark let himself crack by a slim margin, ceasing the fight against the heavy bags under his eyes and the woeful frown tugging at his lips. “The only reason you haven’t shot me yet is because there are cameras everywhere.”

“I wouldn’t shoot you.” Nick patted him on the shoulder. Stark sent him a bewildered look. 

He seemed altogether happier after Nick walloped him in the eye, the crack echoing down the hall with impressive reverberation. Stark crumpled down on his knees and clutched at his face with a groan.

“And you aren’t resigning. I’d be an idiot to let you go and sell your pretty toys to someone else. Though I am going to have to consider what I’d do about that in the future. It’s no good to be solely reliant on one source, right? Not good business at all.” Nick tugged his sleeves down, erasing any sign of disarray on his part. Stark stumbled upright and clung to the wall, chuckling darkly.

“You’re right. It’s terrible business.”

“Because if you _let_ yourself fall victim to Parker’s sway again, or his clone’s, I will have no choice. You’ll be off the team. And you’ll be getting reamed by shareholders and media alike. You’ll go down in big, bonfire flames, Stark. You get me?”

“Loud and clear.” Stark turned and slumped against the wall, gingerly poking at the swelling around his left eye. “Theresa’s going to have a hell of a time trying to cover this up. I’m going to look like shit for week.”

“How sad for both of you.” Nick snorted. He thrust his hands in his pockets and stalked towards the elevator.

“You really would do it, wouldn’t you?” Stark called. “You would kill for Peter. Even before this, you would shoot a man over that kid if you could.”

He didn’t want to, but he stopped. He chewed on the question for a bit, lips twisting in a grimace. Stark continued on, uninvited. “I don’t get it. Why him? There’s a ton of kids tangled up in tights that shouldn’t be. What makes him so different?”

There was a wickedly sharp retort for that poised on the tip of his tongue, but Nick refrained. He forced his fists to break, loose fingered and harmless. The hall had seemingly constricted around them, and the pressure was abruptly all too insistent, too risky to linger in. 

Before temptation kicked in, whether to turn Stark into a panda with another sound knock to the head or to shoot out a scathing warning to never speak about Parker again, Nick simply resumed his exit. He left Stark to fumble on his own, no answers, no pleasantries exchanged. Not that any were expected at this point. 

He needed to join Rogers and get out on the street. The kid could be anywhere by now.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The light invaded his sleep through his eyelids, piercing, turning the black of rest to an angry maroon. Peter blinked in tiny measures, reluctant to blind himself just yet.

His eyes fluttered open. He was in a cell. Not quite a prison cell, the ceilings swooping upward in elegant metal, the walls a pale bronze born of whatever alloy they had used to gild the room. He still dressed in his S.H.I.E.L.D. issue hospital clothes, cast on his bad arm, and sprawled out on a modest cotton covers. He turned and saw a shape at the end of his bed, watching him.

Aunt May smiled at him, bright and tragic, putting her hand over his own. “You’re up. Morning, sunshine.”

Peter blinked again, baffled at the sight of her. Then he was besieged with a quaking, insatiable rage. 

Whatever limitations his body was under – injury, grogginess, whatever ammo had been loaded in that gun to knock him out – it all melted away and was rendered inert. He was upright and savagely slamming his Aunt against the wall. She wheezed and clawed at his arm. Her eyes bulged. “Geez Louise, you’re a testy little tyke!”

“DON’T.” Peter ordered. He glowered, snarling, and pressed harder and upwards. Aunt May’s toes left the ground. “ _Where is she?!_ ”

A sarcastic smirk, too wicked to have ever graced his Aunt’s face, took over the shock. “Come on, I thought this might cheer you up a bit. You didn’t take so well to Shadowcat, after all.”

“ _WHERE IS MY AUNT?!_ ” 

Then it wasn’t his Aunt. There was a ripple through the muscle and bone that made gave Peter a queasy turn, feeling it pulse against his arm where he held her high. Someone much bigger than Aunt May replaced her: broader shoulders and tight muscle, cold eyes that could shoot straight into your heart.

Peter gasped and staggered back. Norman Osborn raised a brow and fixed his suit, the tie ruffled from where Peter had pinned him to the wall. 

“She’s with us,” It scoffed. The voice was spot on and terrorizing Peter’s remaining vestiges of sanity. “Fear not, she lives. Maybe not for long if you’re going to keep up that attitude.“

“What are you doing?” he squawked. He gestured limply to the impossible form it had taken. “Why—“

“You were being rude, and I don’t like getting manhandled. Thank you very much.” Peter made a face and tried to reconcile the flippant language and tone with the well spoken (and totally crazy) Norman he knew. He couldn’t. It felt like watching twitchy videos online, where the soundtrack lagged behind the picture and the mouths moved at all the wrong times. “For the record, I was trying to be nice. We figured it might be easier on you to see your Auntie than just waking up in an episode of Oz.”

“The…Wizard of Oz?”

“The other Oz,” Not-Norman said, unimpressed.

“How do I know you’re not lying about my Aunt? Bring her here!” Peter hissed. “Prove it to me. Prove that she’s still alive, or I’ll—“

“Beat it out of me? Didn’t anyone tell you not to bite the hand that feeds?” Not-Norman seemed to detect Peter was all about biting hands at the moment. He rolled his eyes and motioned him to calm down. “Listen short stuff, you’re not in charge around here. Your Aunt stays put in her cell, and you stay put in yours until we say so. That’s about all the evidence I can give you. Will you calm down?”

Peter glowered. He said nothing. The way his chest battered out the air from his lungs looked more remniscent of a hummingbird in a panic than any human movement. He was going dizzy, having whipped upright so fast, and had to keep blinking to keep the numb white spots clear from his sight.

Was he under the effects of that serum yet? Charging at the shapeshifter wasn’t so telling, that could be attributed to either adrenaline or his spider powers. Peter discreetly let his fingers stick to his pant leg, and pulled. They suctioned on, just as always, tugging the fabric away from his leg,. Everything was still kosher. So what had Aunt May shot him up with? Sugar water?

At least if he had to knock this nutjob around a little, he could. And he just might while it was wearing that face. Peter stepped backwards, scowling still. He hated to admit it but if her goal had been to unnerve him, it had worked perfectly. “Stop it. Change into something else. I don’t want to look at Norman freaking Osborn when I’m talking to you.”

He chuckled at that. “Wow. Okay. Who would you like? I’m a party grab bag, kid, anything you want goes. You got a crush on anyone else in the X-Men besides Kitty Cat?” 

The perversity had him flinching, gooseflesh raised as high as it could go. There were many things he never wanted to hear from Norman Osborn’s mouth, and that was in the top ten. The shapeshifter was having a riot. A sharklike grin flashed over his face – about the closest to the real Norman as it had gotten so far – and he stalked forward.

“How about the Fantastic Four? Sue’s cute. Or is it someone from school? The Daily Bugle? Don’t be shy, Spidey. We’ve read up all about you. If there’s anyone that would make you feel a little more at home, let me know okay? So…what about that little blond number? Gwen or whatever?”

His lungs seized. Peter gaped at the shapeshifter and retreated even further.

“You know, the one that bit it earlier this year? You liked her right? She was living with you guys after all.”

“No,” he snapped. “Shut up. You don’t get to use her. Don’t. Show me who you really are.”

Peter hit the wall. Not-Norman slunk up close, enclosed him with a hand planted over his shoulder. The glass boxed him in on the other side. He leaned in close to Peter’s face and even if his spider senses weren’t pounding, his heart certainly was. He was vibrating with the need to scream. “What’s the fun in that?” 

“Mystique.”

The voice was a baritone, and carried with it a finalty that expected obedience. Peter found himself mysteriously quieted too. His panic was put on pause as he lifted slightly from the wall, trying to peer around the corner for a peek at the speaker. Mystique – as he assumed the shapeshifter was named now – tilted his head back and grinned.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. You know this kid tried to kick my spine out through my gut last night, right? ”

“You’re giving our guest the wrong impression.”

“I think he might have had that impression anyway. Seeing as how we ambushed him and all.”

Approaching from the edge of the cell was a regal figure in purple and red. The face was not familiar. But the helmet and the cape struck upon some primal note, an instant measure of exactly how deeply he’d fallen into trouble. Peter snapped upright, spine straight and found himself frightfully appalled.

The two regarded each other without motion, without sound, through the glass. Perfectly posed for a portrait on polar opposites: one a spindly limbed boy that barely breached five foot five, and the other silver haired and erect, stately, a virtual king in comparison.

The wretched shock of having Norman unleashed on him drained out, just slightly, at the sight of the man. Peter was forced to scramble for dignity. Some semblance of control, and he had so little to spare in his wafer thin hospital pyjamas with bandages all over. 

“Well if it isn’t my old nemesis, Magneto,” Peter drawled stiffly. “Oh wait. I never even said boo to you.”

The mutant, the leader of what might be today’s worst terrorist faction, smiled down at him. The congeniality chilled. “Matters have changed.”

“You couldn’t message me on Facebook?” Magneto did not take the bait. Peter quailed, drawing back to the wall before he could chide himself for his cowardice. He was suddenly very concerned about his teeth, and unsure if the ache there was something he was churning up out of anxiety or a legitimate threat. He had two fillings, both in the back molars on his left side. Not that Magneto would need those, with there being a smorgasbord of metal in the walls and floor and the frame of the bed to choose from. It would all depend on how creative he wanted to be. 

“Leave us, Mystique.”

Norman raised a brow, but drew away dutifully and made for the other side of the cell. Now that Peter was looking he could see the thin outline of a door on the opposite wall. 

As he went he began to shrink, the clothes whipping around and rearranging just as seamlessly as the rest of its body. Suddenly the shapeshifter was no longer anyone Peter knew at all. The skin bled blue, dark yet vibrantly so, and now hugged the trim curves of a woman than the bulk of a man. Her hair was a stunning red. When she reached the door she pressed her palm to it, and it slid backwards and open to a short turn that would take her into the hall. She cast a look back at him, and he saw her eyes were pupiless and yellow. She was all primary colors in a vibrance and combination you’d never expect on a human form, topped with scale-like patches on the skin. Peter found himself withdrawing even further. “Catch you later, Spider-Man?” She grinned again before ducking out, and he was somewhat relieved that her teeth were an ordinary bone white. 

The door whirred and slid back into place behind her. He was not sorry to see her go.

“You’ll have to forgive her. She’s been sour about other matters for some time.”

Peter took a deep breath. He fought to keep his calm. The pangs from his lingering injuries were strangely grounding, and he cuddled his fractured arm to his chest. It had healed even more while he slept, he could feel it. Maybe Janet had been able to cook up a longer lasting mix this time. 

Or the mutants were treating him. Peter couldn’t be sure if he was on painkillers anymore. He didn’t feel like dying, but it just plain seemed odd that a terrorist sect would be wasting medication on him while keeping him in a trussed up zoo pen.

“Was she telling the truth?”

“About what?”

“My Aunt,” Peter said, and did not bother to lament the needy desperation of the plea. “Is my Aunt alive?”

Magneto regarded him casually, as if he had asked after an extra pillow and not his only living family. “To my knowledge, yes. But you ought not concern yourself with her any longer.”

“Ought not?” Peter repeated. He swallowed thickly. There was something ominous about the phrase, aside from the obvious. It rumbled through his brain and knocked things around, dropped half formed notions into place.

“Have you deduced it yet?” Magneto pressed forward. “Why we have brought you here?”

Peter wasn’t dense. His breathing sped: he had been kidnapped by the Brotherhood of Mutant Supremacy, whose biggest grudge against him would be that he dated an X-Man once. If that could even count as an objectionable offense. There was no logical motivation, no antagonism that he could think of that justified their hunting him down, out of costume, digging up his real name and his past. Except for one punitive, horrifying possibility. Even as the concept burrowed into his thoughts he dodged the subject and reached for another, using his most cautious tones. “I thought you were in prison?”

“As do many. It’s for the best that they continue to believe so. For the time being,” Magneto explained with a smile. “There are many blessings that come with mutant kind that humans do not yet understand. I’ve had the benefit of allies that could help maintain the illusion of my incarceration.”

So they had a decoy. Or a very fancy paper cut out. And Nick Fury and the rest either hadn’t figured it out yet, or had been mentally prevented from figuring it out through mutant wizardry. 

They were all screwed. Everyone was screwed.

“But…” Peter started, shaking his head hard. “I’m…look, I’ve never even met you guys. I’ve hung out with the X-Men a couple times, but even then. You’re kidnapping me? I’m pretty below your paygrade, don’t you think? We have to handsew my tights, and look at you with his Holt Renfrew cape and helmet and fancy fortress thing…” he trailed off, disheartened. He was babbling. “What do you want with me?”

“You sell yourself too short, my boy,” Magneto chided, and Peter’s skin didn’t just crawl: it nearly up and walked off his body. He had just been terrorized by a Norman Osborn, he didn’t need Magneto to start calling him by the same nickname he did. “Mystique infiltrated Stark Industries not so long ago. And in doing so she learned quite a lot about you. She brought us the studies they were doing on you. Your DNA.”

The air seemed thin. Peter’s head was as light as a feather. It made altogether too much sense. “I’m a mutant. Aren’t I?”

Magneto dipped his head by a wicked shade and the smile went wider. “You _are_ clever. How fortunate.”

He smothered his face with his hands. Powers in fluctuation. General lack of control, no known origin. “And nobody figured it out because of my other powers.”

“It’s a tragic situation you’re in, my boy.” Peter grimaced and thought he should have told him that he was not anyone’s boy, but he wisely sealed his lips before the words could leave him. He coerced his hands into dropping, even if only slightly, to watch the man dole out his death sentence. “You are crippled. The alterations you have used to become Spider-Man have marred the mutation growing inside you. Had you never taken serums you would have transitioned perfectly. But your false powers and your true potential are at odds, down to a genetic level. The alterations masked the mutant gene, damaged it. Made it difficult to discern even for the likes of us. It took quite some study before we could confirm our suspicions.”

“But…” Peter’s fingers flexed in his confusion, staring wide-eyed at the man. “Even so, why would you just kidnap me like that? You have to know that I’m in with the X-Men by now. I was with them in Genosha. Why are you making a special case for me?”

“Because we will not stand for the degradation of one of our own. Charles wouldn’t help you, but we will. We’re going to fix you.”

Peter fell silent. Ice crept through his skin with a glacial crawl and numbed him wholly. Magneto moved closer, waving a hand in the air as if fanning away the fear rolling off Peter in droves. “You’re confused. I know. It’s always a shock in the beginning, but in time you will see what a wonderful gift you’ve been given. We are going to undo the damage that has been done to you, and then we can discuss what you are going to do with your future.”

“You can’t…no…”

“What you did to yourself before,” he said, raising a finger in chiding, “is the gravest affront to nature that man can commit. While I am uncertain of the origins, I know genetic tampering when I see it. You were an abomination. And it is an insult to your true nature, your mutant nature, to continue indulging these false powers. The forms your mutant abilities are taking now are distorted ones. Perhaps wholly incorrect ones. All because of the meddling and the drugs you have taken to become Spider-Man. When you have been cured, we shall see what shape your abilities take. You are very fortunate. You have been granted a second chance.”

“A ‘second chance’?” Peter queried, mortified.

“The world cannot remain as it is. Do you believe that there is a place for humans in a world with the likes of you and I?” Magneto smiled, and it was the most sincere Peter had seen from him since the conversation started. “The time is coming much sooner than you think. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider where your allegiances lie.”

The tight line Peter had held his lips in had bled them white. His jaw ached from clenching. “What about my Aunt? She’s here because you want me to cooperate, right? After you’ve gone and mutilated my DNA what are you going to do with her? Chuck her off a cliff?”

Magneto had the gall to chuckle, as if Peter had told a dreadfully polite joke at a cocktail party. “We’re not all so savage as that. Your Aunt will go free when we are finished, we have no business with her. We simply did not want her calling any cavalry. You understand.”

“Then bring her up here. I want to see her.”

“Patience is a virtue, boy.”

“I have a name!” Peter snarled.

He raised a finger to shush him. “No, you do not. You are not Peter Parker, and you are not Spider-Man. Until we remove your alterations your mutant nature will be hidden, and we will not know who you truly are until it’s free.”

“I don’t want you to make me a mutant! I don’t want anything from you!”

Magneto drew back, cold and unimpressed with the tantrum Peter was pitching at him. “You’re unsettled. I understand. But you will see reason, sooner or later.”

Then he was leaving, and no longer mindful of what Peter hollered to his retreating back. Peter slammed the glass all over again, calling him back, screaming for his Aunt and to be returned home, but the man disappeared down that grandiose hall that stretched past the edges of his cell. Peter battered the glass even harder. No one else came. The place was dead, almost supernaturally devoid of sound. Paving the way for his frantic heart beat to pound at his skull.

Sneaking up, prickling to begin with before crushing down, bruising, he could feel Venom’s hand at his neck anew. The weight of Venom’s monstrous body pressing down on his legs, the scrape of pavement against his back. Peter began to shiver and sweat. The mix Aunt May had gotten from S.H.E.I.L.D. was apparently useless, but he was still going to be stripped of his abilities, his DNA gutted to make way for the ruinous mutation that had been bubbling under the surface all along.

Peter was certain he’d rather have no powers at all.


	12. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Mary Jane get a late night visitor apiece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for rape/dubious consent, rough sex, violence, and freaky dream shit. Mild breathplay too, though it's more incidental than played for kinks, and very brief and non-con het.
> 
> I am so sorry about the delay on this chapter. I didn't intend to leave it this long, but a combination of real life factors and a bit of writing burnout made it hard to keep posting a new chapter every week. But finally, FINALLY this one is here so I hope it will make up for the wait. Even if it's almost as bad as the Venom chapter. (Don't kill me I'm sorry...)
> 
> That said, holy balls you guys thank you for all the kind comments and the kudos and everything. I wasn't expecting this many of either to crop up period. Thank you, honestly, you're all fantastic! I'm going to reply to the comments later, I have to jet to work, but I just wanted to post this before I go and give my thanks! <3

The last thing she expected when she pulled out her phone upon leaving the Triskelion was thirty seven text messages from Kong. Her high of helping Jessica get to safety was siphoned out of her when she clicked through them, growing ever more owl-eyed in the back seat of the S.H.I.E.L.D. car driving her home.

_mj I heard on the news is it tru_

_Mj please call me_

_I’m sorry mj I know everything is it true? Please please call me_

_No one is answering at his house_

_CALL ME IM REALLY FUCKING SCARED_

Liz had texted her too, asking about Kong because apparently he’d called her in a panic and demanded to hear from either her or Peter the moment Liz did. Kitty messaged her as well, who added that Kong was acting totally suspicious and maybe she should talk to him.

He left her a voice mail. She waited until the agent had dropped her off at home to listen to that, her hand pressed to her mouth and seated on her porch.

Kong could barely be heard, his words overshadowed by the heavy heaving and sniffling as he tried to stifle what might be an earth-filling flood. “Hey, MJ…Look, I’m so, so sorry. I’m so _sorry._ What happened to Pete…I know what he is. I’ve known for a while, and I’m sorry, I swear I haven’t told anyone, but you’re not picking up and Liz says she can’t get a hold of you and I’m scared, okay? Is he seriously fucking dead? Just like that? Please call me. Or somebody. _Please._ ”

Mary just drifted inside and sank into the couch, expression devoid and her mind whirling in horror. Her mother took her temperature (against Mary’s pissant protests) and offered to get her a hot chocolate, to which she begrudgingly accepted and nestled against her mother’s side as Law and Order SVU lit up their decrepit television. She sipped her cocoa and valiantly scrounged her imagination for some grand lie she could toss at her friends to keep them away from the truth. And came up with zilch. 

If Kong knew, then Liz would know soon, and then that was it. No secrets would be kept. Peter was not going to be at school tomorrow, possibly never again, and Kong just might lose his marbles because that would only be proof, and it would get out. Somehow it would get out if it hadn’t already, and the entire school and then Twitter and Facebook and every single person on the planet would know. Peter Parker was Spider-Man. 

She was toast. _He_ was toast.

Then her house phone rang. Her mother was the one to answer, huffing and stomping into the kitchen, but the conversation suddenly rose in pitch and she had burst back into the living room and handed the phone to Mary with an ashen face. She announced that the Parkers had gone missing, and S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to speak with her.

The next half hour had included tears, vicious shouting at the agents on the phone and denied requests to speak to someone in charge. Mary wanted to ask for Nick Fury himself, but her mother was right there next to her the whole time. Ultimately she had been told to ‘keep an eye out’, and would be notified if there was any progress, and to report in if either Peter or his Aunt made contact, or their kidnappers did. After hanging up her mother had to hold onto her by the collar of her shirt to keep her from stomping out the door to go look for herself. 

“Mary, please, I don’t know why these things are happening to him, or to you, but you have to stay with me,” she pleaded. “Please. What if it’s that man again?”

“It’s not Norman Osborn,” Mary insisted, though she herself had doubts now. S.H.I.E.L.D. was crap at keeping people in custody, and the thought of Norman succumbing to Peter’s new power and forcing him down made her blood boil to steaming. 

“Mary Jane. Stay.” Her mother had taken her by the arms and looked her directly in the eyes. “Those people, they’re the ones who can save them. They’re the ones who deal with all those crazy kooks, not us. Please, I’m worried about them too. But I’m not letting you go out there looking for him.” She drew her into her arms then and petted her hair, and Mary began to choke when she heard the tremors in her mother’s voice. “What do you expect to find, sweetie? We can’t do anything. Let the police do it. Let S.H.I.E.L.D. do it. They’ll bring him home, I promise…”

There wasn’t much she could say to that.

Sometime later, after they had both eaten ice cream and leftover key lime pie and her mother had kept her warm with a tight arm around her shoulders all the while, she was allowed to go to her room and get ready for bed. Her mother promised she was welcome to come stay in her room if she couldn’t sleep. Mary smiled and kissed her goodnight, and bounded up the stairs with a grim turn in her guts.

Her mother would be furious, and hurt. Mary knew that and she hated herself for it, but she had to do something. As it was she was already flipping through the contacts on her phone. Kitty and Johnny had better be awake, because they were not sleeping tonight. 

So when she opened her bedroom door and saw him leaning on the wall by her open window, she didn’t scream. She did snap upright and gasp, but her alertness stopped her from balking and chucking whatever she could reach at the dark figure in front of her. 

“Thought you’d be in bed already,” Logan whispered. His face was drawn, his arms crossed. He might be able to heal himself but Mary couldn’t help thinking he looked rather green around the gills. 

“Does that make this _any_ degree of okay?” Mary hissed, appalled. She hastily shut the door and wilted against it. Her phone was deposited into her pocket. Kitty and Johnny would have to wait. “What are you freaking doing here? How do you know where I live?”

“Did some digging. Didn’t think you’d be at school tomorrow, all things considered. Thought I’d come looking here,” He slipped , a curious slump to his shoulders and a hollowness to his voice. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

Mary scowled. “O…kay…”

He tilted his head towards a photo of her and Peter on her night table, arms entwined and cheesy grins lighting up a gray day at Coney Island. “How did it happen?”

“You heard?” Mary moved closer, her fear relit and gesturing for Logan to close the window. “What do you know?”

“I just saw it a coupla hours ago,” Logan cinched the window shut and wiped his brow as he took to a patch of wall that was barren of posters and bulletins. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “It was all over the news. I mean it, kid, I came to say that I am sorry. I walked away from you when you needed me. I don’t know how much that had to do with what killed him, but he’d been missing that whole time through. Hadn’t he? And now there ain’t nothing I can do to take that back.”

She cocked her head, puzzled. There had been affirmative promises made by S.H.I.E.L.D. to notify people like the X-Men, who worked with Peter sometimes, that it wasn’t real so that they wouldn’t try to seek retribution or come bother his Aunt with condolences. Or worse, feel like it was safe to announce his true identity to anyone who didn’t already know. (Shit, Kong. She could not let herself forget to do something about that can of worms before class tomorrow.) 

But if Logan was out on his own in New York, then he wouldn’t know at all.

Mary wet her lips and motioned for him to sit down. “Logan? You might wanna take a seat.”

He did meet her eyes then, guarded. The impeccable stillness that came over him made Mary’s breath stop in her throat. His voice was a dangerous, wounded rumble. “There’s something off the record, huh?”

“Sorta,” she said with a bitter smile. She joined him, thrusting her hands in her lap and tugging anxiously at her knuckles. “Uh. So which do you want first: the good news, or the really bad news?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The pavement below him was cold. Sticky, plucking at his skin as he undulated under each thrust. Peter moaned and tossed his head to the side as Tony Stark lapped at his pulse and rolled into him, over and over. Peter’s legs were twined around the small of his back and bobbed back and forth. The bottom half of his tights were dangling from his ankles. The rest of his costume was on save for the mask, but all was mussed. Tony was in a finely tailored suit, as always, but his cock emerged from his open fly to bury into Peter to the hilt. With how his weight bore down on Peter he could have sworn he was in the Iron Man armor instead.

Peter couldn’t close his eyes for some reason. He had to watch the alley around them, cool and dim in the waning reaches of street lamps around the corners, examine the glints on plaster and bricks as Tony pinned him down and pumped into him without cessation, without change. The same, monotonous rhythm of a boat on steady waters. It was just going, and going, and Peter couldn’t feel anything but the cold and the gummy stickiness at his back. The cock driving into his rear might as well have been thin air, if not for the sense of pressure that remained, and the motion and the soft thumps of skin on Tony’s clothed crotch.

“Get off me,” Peter muttered, gaze to the wall. 

Tony didn’t obey. Instead his teeth sunk into his shoulder, fiery hot and piercing. Peter felt that, the only new sensation that stuck, and it only grew in severity as the skin parted and blood welled around Tony’s teeth. He yelped and slapped at him, beating at the ten tonnes of millionaire crushing him into the ground until he was suddenly alone. Tony had dissipated into the air. 

Peter laid prone for a moment. He did nothing about his fallen pants, staring upwards. There wasn’t a sky. Just a flat, navy void, like painted plywood set pieces from a theatre troupe.

Then the sounds started again. Slapping, skin on skin. Peter was still alone, and the sounds were coming from around the corner. Frowning, he dragged himself onto all fours. He crawled, his knees scraping and his hands nearly sticking for good with each time he patted them down and lifted again, the ground rising in thin strings with them like hot mozarella.

Around the corner was another thin alley, more pavement, more navy. Venom was hunched over and coddling something underneath his bulk, thrusting downwards in the same metronome rhythm Tony had used on him. Pale white legs, thin and shuddering, stuck out from either side of his waist. 

Then Venom drew back, one hand cradling the head of the person below, and continued, hunched over in an unnatural contortion for such a bulky form. Peter could see red hair spilling out from his fingers. He crawled closer.

Mary Jane was lifeless underneath Venom. Her eyes were open and glassy, mouth parted like a corpse. She was utterly naked, and missing the freckles that debuted when summer reached its peak and she bared her limbs in shorts and skirts and sleeveless tees. Her skin was a near literal white. The red of her hair like fire, and the green of her blank eyes piercing and vivid, electric. Her lips were vixen red. Her body moved whenever Venom did, her arms skittering under the force and her head lolled uselessly, falling to the side so that she was staring at Peter with a doll’s limitless focus. Devoid of thought. 

Venom moved his hand. Brushed his knuckles over the crown of her head, through her hair. Then with one talon-tipped finger, pressed into her temple. The claw sunk in without resistance. Then the tip of the finger, down to the first knuckle, embedded into Mary Jane’s head too. Not a drop of blood leaked out. He pushed to the second and her jaw dropped a little more.

Peter had sunken into the ground, four inches deep, enough to bury his hands and feet and most of his knees. No matter which way he tore himself, thrashed his body about and hollered, he couldn’t free himself from the tar. Venom sunk his finger into Mary Jane’s skull down to the base, and her searing green eyes rolled back and disappeared behind the lids as her tongue draped out of her gaping mouth. The squelching sounds of sex swelled, buffeted his ears like the roar of a jet engine, until he could take no more and jolted awake in his cot.

He was gasping and sweating ferociously under the hospital scrubs. Someone had turned out the lights, both in his cell and all down the hall. Peter huffed and shivered, and tore the blankets out from the mattress to cocoon himself with. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. After Magneto and Mystique had abandoned him he’d been left alone, and spent futile hours scouring his cell for signs of a workable exit. Or at least a sanctuary of some sort, because his bed was out in the open with the one wall comprised entirely of glass. Fortified glass, as none of his blows could shatter it and only left his knuckles and feet bruised and throbbing. 

There was a private toilet and a sink through a door that blended so seamlessly into the wall that Peter had nearly overlooked it the first time through, had it not been for the shadow of the inlaid handle. It wasn’t much, but it was something. His one last hope, the vent, was only just big enough to fit his forearm. He’d have to be in twenty pieces to get through it. And the main exit was impenetrable from this side of the cell. Peter knew he still had his spider strength, but even then none of his hits or one-handed prying attempts could dislodge the door. 

He retreated to the bathroom now and ran the water in the sink. Mary Jane’s dumbfounded, sickly face was emblazoned to the back of his eyelids. He couldn’t go back to sleep now. Awake from a nightmare and the prisoner of a terrorist sect, threatening to strip him of his spider powers and leave him to the mercy of whatever was left behind. His Aunt May still being hidden away somewhere, her worth reduced to a bargaining chip. Peter grimaced and splashed his face clean several times. His bangs were sopping wet by the end of it. 

Peter was starving and shaking at his extremities, his head pounding in commiseration with his miserable stomach. He loathed the idea of sitting out on his bed, waiting for someone to come feed him, or push anti-Oz concoctions into him with needles or pills. The broad window only made him feel like he was stuck in a zoo. He crept out again and thieved the blankets and the pillow from his already sparse bed, and set up a nest in the bathroom. He huddled himself into a pile there, and shut the door, staring at the wall behind the sink and unsure of what to do with himself. 

Escape. He had to find his Aunt and get out. He was certain by now that he was the only occupant in this hall. If it was a hall. There had been no other sounds, no dialogue or passerby since Magneto had left him. He was still in terrible shape from the last time with Venom (and just like that he had to close his eyes and let his head clink against the bathroom wall as he sucked in air and counted to ten, because the air had left him and for a split second he could fool himself into feeling the inky tendrils and the tongue at his neck) and he wouldn’t last too long in a fight with most of the mutants here, bum arm and all. His shoulder had seemingly sealed up thanks to Janet’s cocktail, the stitches scabbed and mostly useless, and the bruises and scrapes had all vanished. Yet his arm was still chugging along slowly, not quite broken anymore but still not ready to take a good swing. It would make an easy target. He would have to work quickly, incapacitate or outrun any assailants. Maybe he could take a run at whoever next opened the door, hope to take them by surprise and skirt out that way.

Then he would have to contend with an entire compound of god knew how many mutants, all of which had super powers of unknown varieties save for about four: Juggernaut, Mystique, Sabretooth, maybe the Blob. 

Plus Magneto.

Barring his immediate death or a swift but thorough butt whooping, Peter would then have to locate his Aunt May. Then, he would have to navigate the compound, possibly the land outside it (if they were even on land) and then locate a way home. Knowing the Brotherhood, he was probably going to have to find a way to fly, sail, or doggy paddle three hundred million miles back into New York. Try to hijack some kind of automobile, except he could barely drive and definitely could not sail or fly a plane. All while dodging the entirety of the Brotherhood and trying to keep his Aunt alive and his stupid, horrible ass mutant frick power under wraps.

Peter stood, and bent over the sink to splash his face a little more. He then cupped his hands and drank the water there, and on the second round spat it messily as he choked on the knot in his throat. He wiped himself clean on the edge of the blanket and burrowed back inside. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of how he could possibly be more screwed.

Sounds; heels, indelicate and flat and thudding, advanced down the hall. Peter held his breath. It was muffled through the bathroom door, but he plainly had a visitor. He strained, sitting upright, trying to hear for some sort of clue as to who or why they were coming to him in the dark of night (supposedly). Maybe they had seen him go into the bathroom on survelliance and got worried when he didn’t come out. That he might have hung himself with the sheets or tried to drown himself in the sink. 

The door was opening, and he heard a grunt. Definitely a guy. Peter began to sweat and folded the blanket over himself and rolled over onto his side, shutting his eyes tightly. Play dead. Pretend like he was sleeping. Loosen the blankets over his legs so they could spring upright and nail the guy in the crotch.

Normally that would be a huge no no, but if it doubled to hamper the guy as an assailant and a potential victim of his mutant power? Peter would do it. He had no qualms with cheap shots at this point.

The bathroom door squeaked open, and instead of being an obliging target and leaning down to get a look at him, the man spoke from up high. “Cut the Sleeping Beauty shit out. I can hear you mouth breathing all the way down the hall.” 

Sabretooth. Peter fought not to scowl and tried a kick anyway. His leg was swatted back to the floor like a mouse under the mercy of a cat. Peter hissed as his heel landed hard on the tile and immediately shoved himself into the corner, further away from Sabretooth. 

“Worth a shot,” he said with gritted teeth. The mutant grinned, his canines pointed and catching a gleam even in this dim of light. “What’s your problem? Can’t a man sleep in his own bathroom around here? What happened to a freer, better world for mutantkind?”

“You can sleep wherever the fuck you like,” Sabretooth said with a shrug. “I’m here to settle a few questions.”

“Oh dear god. Now?” Peter’s eyes rolled and he moved to stand, still pressed flatly to the wall. Normally he might chide himself over limiting his escape routes, but with two hundred-some pounds of ugly parking in the only exit he had Peter felt that getting distance in was more beneficial than mobility. He would have to draw Sabretooth in, away from the door, or make sure that he backed out into the cell again. 

And quickly. Before _it_ could kick in. How long had it been since he’d had his last shot of the antidote? Peter wet his lips and fished for an out. “Could Magneto seriously not wait until morning for this?”

“I ain’t here on Magneto’s dime,” Sabretooth drawled. “Tipped off the surveillance guy to watch the ‘toon channel for a bit. It’s just me and you, Spidey.”

“Ah, the showdown literally no one was waiting for,” Peter spat. “Unless you’ve got my Aunt behind you and a plane stashed down your pants, I am not interested in anything you have to say.” 

“You’re a real mouthy shit, you know that?”

“Yeah, I do. And so would you, if you had any kind of business with me before this. But you didn’t, so,” Peter gave a peevish wave of his hand. “Skedaddle.”

“Except I did, didn’t I?” Sabretooth leaned casually against the doorframe, infuriatingly set on sticking around. “Don’t tell me you forgot. It’s been twice now you’ve come my way.”

Peter hoped that he couldn’t hear the way his heart was pounding out a bassline, rampant and quaking. He probably could. Sabretooth wouldn’t have been kidding about hearing him breathe from down the hall. Wolverine 2.0, the online messageboards concurred. Heightened senses and healing and the surliness of five Oscar the Grouches, congealed into one Super Grouch. Peter feigned disinterest even so. “Would we call those ‘meetings’, really?”

“Maybe not. But settle one thing for me: Hell’s Kitchen.”

 _Shit,_ Peter thought vehemently. He would be permanently fused to the wall if he tried to press against it any harder. 

“I could smell it was you. Same snot nosed punk that busted up my fight with Wolverine,” Sabretooth tapped the side of his nose and smiled, canines brushing the precipice of his bottom lip and his eyes unwavering on Peter’s. “I might have just roughed you up. Taught you a lesson about interfering and been on my way, but I was curious: why was Spider-Man waltzing around the wrong side of town, _reeking_ like he’d been ass-fucked into the floor?”

Frank Castle. Peter’s eyes went wide, his face morbidly hot, and he wanted to protest that Sabretooth had imagined it. He had showered first thing. Apparently, not thoroughly enough. The man had yanked him into his arms and sniffed him – so that had been on purpose. Not because Peter’s mutant powers drew him in. Or maybe it was a little of both, one aggravating the other. 

Sabretooth was encased in shadows as he moved further in, his face all but disappearing. Peter didn’t have a lot of wall to escape to but he climbed upwards regardless, one handed and feet scrambling. The ceiling was low. The room was thin and stuffy and hot. The door was unoccupied now, but Sabretooth was in front of him and only barely craning his neck to look him in the eye. 

“Is money that tight out in Queens? Trying to squeeze an extra dollar out of that little getup of yours?” He clapped a hand on Peter’s knee and the spider sense started to hum. He tilted it to the side, thumbing the cleft where his calf pressed snug to his thigh. His claws didn’t slice the fabric but pricked it, roughing up the threads and peppering the air between them with tiny zips. 

The drumming of his pulse was unignorable, thrumming in his ears. Peter breathed in thinly. “No,” he said, scarcely more than a puff of air. The skin of his knee burned, Sabretooth’s hand singeing it through the flimsy fabric of his pants. 

“Well shit, it’s hard to think of another reason a good little boy like you would be doing the walk of shame at two in the afternoon. Or…” He slid his hand higher, nicking the fabric with his thumb to leave a line like a nylon run in its wake. Peter shuddered uncontrollably and began to sweat at his brow. “Maybe Shadowcat’s not your type after all.”

“I don’t…” Peter croaked. He couldn’t ignore that hand. The closeness. His muscles seized and Sabretooth squeezed in response. Peter gasped, the slightest of hitches, and somewhere in the pit of his gut he knew he was a goner.

Didn’t the Brotherhood know about this? Didn’t they know that no one should be in here, with him, where they could touch him and kiss him and slip their hands under his clothes and he wouldn’t be able to do jack shit about it? Or did they just not care?

In the darkness he could almost imagine it was Venom again, the bulky frame nearly black save where he could see the blond, ragged hair spilling down his shoulders and back. Sabretooth’s voice was like the purr of a jungle cat. “Who was he? Not your age, for sure. I could smell that much. Got a thing for the daddy types, huh?”

Peter kept his gaze, mouth parted and molten hot all over. “It just…happened.”

“Kinda like this?” Sabretooth abandoned his thigh for his hip and yanked, snapping Peter’s hold on the wall and dropping him down a foot before body slamming him back against it. His breath was warm as it puffed over Peter’s cheeks, face looming close as he weilded him by the legs and jerked them up, cruelly curving Peter’s back and pressing his rear against the rising bulge. His whimpers were pitiful surrenders already.

“No,” he keened weakly.

“You sure?” Sabretooth rolled against him, coercing his cock into the cleft his ass even through their clothes, rubbing it, coaxing it to life. “Feels kinda like you’ve done this before. How about this?” And he grabbed Peter’s legs again to pin them to the wall, drawing a straight line from knee to knee: a lewd demonstration of his freakish flexibility. Like a bug under glass, wings splayed out with metal pins and a placard below. Sabretooth laughed at the sight. “Oh, you’ve _definitely_ done this one.”

“No!” Peter retorted, pushing his one good hand at Sabretooth’s chest, fully intending it to be a hit but instead he had to stop and spread his fingers. Palm the rigid muscle of his chest. It was like stone. His own cock was rising. Pure muscle, and pressing him into the wall with no effort, and that was a massive dick standing against his rear. “Fucking let me go, you crazy…”

“Well how’s this one?” He dropped Peter’s legs and he went stuttering to the floor, still half upright because Sabretooth hadn’t given him the berth to fall completely. He set his palm against his scalp and Peter felt its breadth, broad and stiff, and wondered if those fingers could close around his head whole and squeeze it into pulp. 

They knotted into his hair instead. Dragged him up until he felt the man’s cock bump his jaw, tented in his pants still. Peter flushed hot and his stomach quivered, and he had to look at the floor for fear he might burst into flame, facing the man’s crotch from mere inches away. “Bet you spend a lot of time sucking dick. Smartass little shit like you, bet they love stuffing you up.”

Peter trembled and grappled for purchase, settling for a fold in the leg of Sabretooth’s pants. He curled his fingers into it as if it might keep him from falling. His knees hurt already, smarting from the tumble, but he didn’t dare shift away. “I’ve never – no, I haven’t.”

“Oh, what a shame. What a damn shame.” He pushed at his head and made Peter nuzzle his member with all the gentility that lions gave gazelles. Smell wasn’t a sense that stuck on his mind often, but now he felt he knew what it must be like being Wolverine. There was a muskiness, a resounding identity about the heady scent being rubbed into his nose. If he ever caught a whiff of something like it down a street at night, or passing by on a breeze, he would know it by heart and he would be thrown back to this moment, with the denim nearly chaffing his nose and the wildfire pumping through his veins, the dick that was a button and a zipper away from spreading slick trails of precum over his face. “We can fix that right now, can’t we?”

Peter swallowed and mumbled, mostly indiscernable, “Uh huh…”

“That’s right.” Peter’s head was drawn away as Sabretooth coarsely popped his button loose, pulled down the zipper. He wasn’t wearing underwear. His dick, rigid and thick, bobbed free and swatted Peter’s cheek. “Don’t be shy. Go ahead. Give us a kiss.”

The heat radiating off the thing was phenomenal. Peter could taste it, even just through the air, and though it was dark and Peter’s field of vision was already limited to the breadth of Sabretooth’s hips the world seemed even smaller than that. Just the length, the heat, the smothering scent. Peter turned his head, lilted back in the new slack on his hair that Sabretooth had given him, and kissed the shaft, open and sliding the wet side of his lips over the skin. It had a darkness to the taste. Something out of his vocabulary, like skin but a little more.

“Now lick it.”

Peter jutted out his tongue and started at the underside, then rolled up to the top. Just around where the head joined the length. Sabertooth was uncircumcised, he could feel that now, there was a ridge between the head and the rest that tugged so slightly along with his tongue. There was a bawdy rumble from the man above him and Peter could swear he could feel it shaking his bones. “Good boy,” he congratulated and let his hair go to rub at his head, petting him like a dog. “Keep at it.”

Peter steadied himself again with his palm now flat and at the side of Sabretooth’s hip. His cast arm stayed tucked at his middle, even if he had momentarily turned it out to further brace himself on the other hip before he remembered. He licked again, this time starting further down and drawing up in a flat, singular stroke. It wasn’t the best taste. Even a little bitter. But the motion put his nerves on fire and his pants were tenting, and everything he ever wanted boiled down to keeping some part of him on that cock. Peter licked again, and then flicked at the tip and quivered when he tasted the beginnings of cum. He wrapped his lips over the head and pulled back, the skin tugging with him some way before he hit the end, bare and soft and wet. He circled his tongue over the divide and Sabretooth moaned tormentuously when he accidentally found his tongue probing the underside of the skin. 

“Not too much – that’s it,” he guided as Peter tentatively investigated the differences, his own dick being cut since as long as he could remember and having to explore mouth first. He had to think, which was hard enough as it was with his blood boiling and being boxed in by a man twice his size with his dick in his face, but he could remember what he’d seen before this. The girls in videos usually tried to take it in as far as they could and pumped at what wouldn’t fit with one hand. Peter wasn’t ever really sure how much of that was actually good and how much was just something they did for show, that wouldn’t work or feel good in real life but hit the spot on tape, so he couldn’t bring himself to try swallowing it down just yet. But he did close his mouth over the end, pushing up farther, enclosing what he could without gagging and trying not to be too disturbed by the feel of something massive and heavy in his mouth, leaving his jaw hanging to accommodate. Peter pulled back and swirled his tongue over the shaft and the head as he did and then clumsily took it in again. Repeat. It was getting easier on every turn, and he wasn’t even so shy about letting it prod the back of his mouth.

Just mirror what the rest of sex was like, he surmised. Back and forth, over and over. He let go of the hip eventually and brushed his fingers over the man’s balls, gently rubbing, then venturing up to clutch at the leftover shaft and pay it the same attention the rest was getting. Sabretooth kept petting at his hair and grunting on occasion so he figured he must not be so terrible at this. At one point he remembered that he was supposed to suck at it, not just run his mouth over it, and when he did Sabretooth yanked at his hair again and moaned, tapering off into a sinister chuckle.

“Quick learner, ain’t ya Spidey?”

Peter made a sound in response but it was smothered into a meek, deathly cry. Sabretooth didn’t let him pull away now, taking the reigns again and shoving Peter down to impale his mouth on his cock. Peter choked when it pressed insistently on the back of his throat. His petulant gargles only made the man laugh more, begin to thrust, and Peter couldn’t keep up anymore. The best he could do was hold still and let the cock jam into his mouth without his teeth or tongue getting in the way.

He was grateful when the man pulled out for good. Less so when he was torn upwards by his bicep and his shoulder threatened to pop clean out of his socket. Sabretooth had him by the waist and slammed him high into the wall so that his feet dangled half a foot above the floor until he scrambled to get them secure against the wall, bending his knees around the girth of the man’s middle. Sabretooth went for his pants. Peter found his ass bared, the flimsy elastic waist of his hospital scrubs stretched wide over his open legs. His erection was still bent under the elastic. It was unbearable and lonely and he tried to reach for it but the next moment Sabretooth was grabbing at his ankles. He ripped his feet off the wall and Peter’s back skidded downward, air catching with a meager squeak in his throat, but he did not fall. Sabretooth grabbed his rear before he could fall and pushed Peter into the wall. He had to quickly move out his cast arm to hang at his side or it would be crushed by his legs, knees coming to meet his shoulders and his feet lost in the air. 

“You look so fucking tasty right now. Look at these lips,” Sabretooth pushed his thumb into Peter’s mouth and pressed down on his bottom lip. Peter could feel the blood pumping there. “All red and swollen like a whore.”

His thoughts were mostly scattered to the wind, but he still frowned and glowered. “I’m not a whore,” he rasped.

“Oh? That so?” Sabretooth let go of his face and reached under him. He devoured Peter with open, invasive kisses that nicked with his too sharp teeth and smothered in their scope as he repositioned his cock against Peter’s entrace. It was sopping wet from the haphazard blow job, and that seemed like enough excuse for the man to start pressing in the head without trying to loosen Peter first. 

He jutted his head to the side to break the kiss and holler in shock. It wasn’t that so much the pain – that was absent, it was all pressure and stretch by now and Peter could concieve with a little pang that maybe he was ruined so badly that he’d gone loose, so many people had shoved their dicks into him. The thought stung. It was a deep and buried thing breaching its confines: pain like a splinter rising from his gut to his lungs, piercing them before impaling on his heart, jamming up his throat. When he shuddered tears came loose and he shoved his cheek against the wall in an attempt to hide them from Sabretooth, turning his head as far as he could take it. He ought not to have bothered. Sabretooth lapped them up with a flat tongued swipe, gripping his chin hard to draw him back in so he could reach the other cheek. 

He started pumping into Peter then. His laugh was coarse, and Peter’s moans long and mournful.

“Take it,” he hissed at him, and licked into his mouth. Spittle linked their lips as he drew away before it broke and slopped against Peter’s chin, and Peter had to wonder if he got off on tasting the traces of his own cock. He pushed roughly at him and fondled his rear with one hand, kneading and stroking and pinching as he bombarded him with a flurry of deep thrusts. The lower end of his back was smacking against the wall and he gave out the most pathetic whimpers as it bruises were birthed on each tender bump of his spine. “Little bitch. You talk big but look at you now, huh? You love it. Big dicks get you drooling, don’t they?”

And Peter, choking on his humiliation, still bit his lips and squirmed under the heated fog he was lost in. In and out, and pushing against that little hotspot inside already, his own dick standing tall and nearly chafing in the hospital pants. He could hardly remember how to speak. “Yeah...”

Sabretooth laughed wildly, and pried them off the wall. Though there was a steady and broad-handed grip around his waist Peter was loathe to lose the support. He yelped and wrapped his good arm against Sabretooth’s neck, sticking by the pads of his fingers on instinct. But the man didn’t drop him. He simply lifted him up. Slammed him back down. Peter’s scream reverberated on the metal walls like the lingering buzz of a cymbol. His thighs, threaded under Sabretooth’s arms and around his ribs and still strangled by the scrub pants slung around their base, squeezed hard for support. Peter started to anticipate, push himself upward from the strength of his legs and let himself fall. Sabretooth ceased lifting him and watched stunned as Peter did the work on his own. He was bouncing midair, suspended by an inert hold on his waist and the squeeze of his legs, tangled around Sabretooth’s middle in a mess of a pretzel. His hand was soldered to the meaty flesh of his shoulder. Sabretooth gave a salacious moan. “You are goddamn _shameless._ Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Shut up,” Peter hissed. He shut his eyes and carried on. He could focus on the good bits that way without wanting to hurl over the bad. Namely, who he was riding like a bucking bronco. Sabretooth was big, no lies about that. If he left his eyes closed and turned deaf to the dirty jeers, the moans, then he could pretend it was nothing. It was nobody important. Squeeze at the girth inside of him and let it nudge at that little bump that sent lightning to the tips of his toes and fingers without wanting to scream.

He would have killed for his cast to be gone right now. Loathe as he was to try, his cock was dripping by now and he ached to jack off. Peter grunted and tried to jolt himself up into a tighter angle, so that he could rub his dick against the man’s abs with a better consistency. Better friction, too. Sabretooth took it the wrong way entirely. He attacked his neck and his lips and stilled Peter’s bouncing. He cemented him to his chest with a one –armed clutch, and made for the door. His cock slipped loose as he walked, and occasionally smacked at Peter’s ass on the odd step.

He deposited Peter on his bed, now consisting of a lonely and barren mattress. His pants disappeared. He thought he heard them land with a feather soft thump, but that wasn’t important when Sabretooth was crawling over him, on his knees between Peter’s open legs and lifting his shirt to lick at his belly, bit at the start of his ribs. His canines brushed a bruise and Peter choked. He reached further and groped at his chest, suckling at whatever skin he could get under his mouth. Peter’s legs tensed and slid back and forth over his sides, ribs to hip, in appreciation. He let his fingers thread through the shaggy blond locks and wasn’t at all surprised to find them coarse and wiry like a dog’s, almost too thick to be human. 

It was a brief exploration. Peter switched to yanking, pulling his head up and using his legs to tug him in close with a mantis grip. Sabretooth raised his gaze and a brow to follow. “Hurry up,” Peter ordered hoarsely. His cock was throbbing. His ass was throbbing. Neither was happy with the sudden neglect.

Sabretooth was all smiles. “You sure came around quick enough.”

“Stop being such an asshole and just fricking—“ Peter whacked him on the shoulder, “Shut up and _fuck me_.”

“Well if you’re that keen on it.” And the weight lifted off of him, his legs were hoisted by the knees into the air and split far apart, and Sabretooth bore down.

For a moment all Peter saw was Venom, enveloping him in shadow, skyscraper high and foreboding. The sweat at his brow went cold.

And then the revererie was gone. Heat waves swilled back through him as Sabretooth pressed the thick head inside him, the wide shaft, Peter loosing a long groan at the progress until he could nearly feel the tickle of the dark hairs at his crotch against his rear. Peter bit his lip and could feel it bruising under his canines, but did not let go. He tried to coerce the mattress into a fold under his fingers, give him something to hold onto that wasn’t Sabretooth or his own dick, but it had no give. Too stubborn to give up, he combed through his own hair instead, entwining it around his knuckles and pulling, hard, so that the sharp pricks of hair at the brink of being uprooted could combat with how Sabretooth filled him up and pushed against that sweet spot inside of him. His toes were curling. 

He had hoped Sabretooth would come before he did. He was still holding out. He wanted to, _so_ badly, but if he started stroking himself he knew he’d be humiliated, it would be like Sabretooth had coaxed it out of him. 

Whore. The word was rattling inside his skull even now. 

Peter gasped sharply when he felt the tips of his claws curl around his hips, speckle the round of his ass, and he could have sworn the mattress was made of stone cold pavement, his skin wet with blood and spit. But no pain came. Sabretooth only yanked him up so that his hips could meet him where he had risen to his knees. Peter’s neck was curved cruelly, only his head and shoulders and arms were connected to the mattress now. His erection flopped down and bumped at his stomach. From here, Sabretooth snarled and rammed into him like a jackhammer, red eyes slit and lip curled, teeth bared in a wolfish threat. 

“DON’T!” Peter hollered, his cry strangled by the angle of his neck. He slapped his good hand on the mattress and fruitlessly stuck it there, hoping it would help keep him still. His legs flailed around Sabretooth. Air came to him thinly and he could swear he was choking on every thrust, the merciless jerks jarring his neck and banging his teeth together. “STOP IT! I C-CAN’T— BREATHE!”

“Shut the _fuck up._ ” If possible, Sabretooth punched into him harder. Peter wheezed and twitched and moved his arm closer, trying to prop himself up to alleviate the panic. It helped a little, but curved his back even more and every pump of Sabretooth’s hips jarred his bones together, put cricks in his joints and made his muscles sting. 

He could have wept in thanks when it stopped. Sabretooth pulled out of him and let his hips drop. Peter bounced gracelessly on the mattress and heaved for air. The mutant seemed not to care. He only inched forward and reached for Peter’s head next, pulling him up by the hair. Peter shrieked and snatched him by the wrist to pry himself loose. He wasn’t letting that cock in his mouth again, not after it had been _inside him_.

His spider sense rose as Sabretooth wound back and slapped him hard. His cheek went numb. He had to blink white spots away. When Sabretooth gripped him again and turned his face forward, Peter complied with only a baffled blink.

“Look at me,” he growled, and Peter could see now that he had himself in his hand, slick noises following every pump and the foreskin rolling back and forth over the base of the bright and throbbing head. He was pointing it at his face. Peter obeyed, turning his gaze up to the sneer above him and simply gaped at the man. He might as well have been ten feet tall, his form seeming to stretch up and up impossibly as Peter hovered low at his groin. Peter quivered, cowed. 

When Sabretooth came it splashed over Peter’s face in ungainly strings. The first spurt caught him under his left eye, and when he gasped and tried to turn away his right cheek got painted in ivory cream, a glob landing in his ear. Sabretooth forced him forward again and some fell over his lips and the tip of his nose. Peter flinched and squeezed his eyes shut, mortified. But his cock was still hard, his belly twisted with need and some part of him knew that the trembling wasn’t just from disgust, or fear. 

He was sick, or crazy, or both. His chest had gone a little tight and he lingered on the spot, frozen in anticipation. Hoping there would be a little more. One last splash to finish off. None came and Peter’s stiff shoulders wilted in disappointment.

Sabretooth followed him down to the bed, cooing and telling him he was such a pretty little thing and pressing his palm hard against Peter’s mouth as they hit the mattress. He reached between them and seized Peter’s cock. His cries were muffled under the hand, and he could taste the man’s semen. It was squished under his palm and thus trickling into his mouth. Sabretooth made no move to wipe it away, and his hand was rough against his dick and Peter couldn’t be sure which had his feet kicking against the bed: the bitter taste of cum and the hand smothering his mouth, or the thick fist curled around his dick.

He didn’t last long at all. He came with a pitiful whimper, and his own come splashed over Sabretooth’s hand and his thighs. The mutant held onto him and bit at his ear as he rode down from the high, his wriggling slowing to twitches and his heart pounding in time with his head.

Sabretooth was hot above him. Stifling, and chafing where his unruly hair rubbed against Peter’s own threadbare skin. Peter’s eyes burst open. 

Impressively, he managed to slam Sabretooth into the wall while lying down with only one good hand at his disposal. The man hit the metal with an ungainly thud, and maybe it was his imagination but there was a slight shadow left in the wake that might have been a dent.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” Peter hollered hoarsely. Any elation, any sense of calm that came with release had fled him entirely. The cum didn’t wipe away wholly when he scrubbed his face with his sleeve in fury, choking at the smell and the clammy remains. He shoved himself upright and awkwardly twisted his legs, knees to his shoulders to hide his groin and pointing a rigid finger at the door to their side. “NOW.”

“What the fuck?!” For his part Sabretooth looked more bewildered than offended. He was openly confused and seemingly unhurt. Or already healed, as he would be. Peter had thrown him ruthlessly into the metal wall but he hadn’t been aiming to break a bone. “This some kind of bipolar bullshit?”

“Leave. Now!” Peter demanded again. Sabretooth’s lip curled and he snorted, unconvinced and unthreatened by the half-undressed teenager screaming at him.

“That how it’s gonna be? You were plenty peppy just a second ago,” Sabretooth pointed out, reclining against the wall and utterly unconcerned with decency. His now flaccid cock still hung out of the fly of his pants. “What gives?”

“I said get out!” Peter kept jutted his arm out, stiff as a javelin from the top of his shoulder to the very end of his index finger. Rebellious factions wanted him to shudder, to shake that solid line but he refused to give in. He could shake and cry and exorcise every other awful urge Sabretooth had incited in him after the man was gone.

Sabretooth raised a brow. Then the other followed, and the corners of his mouth lilted upright in a bastard’s smirk. “Oh,” he said. “ _Oh_. I get it.”

“That I want you out? Get lost, you sick son of a—”

“This is your mutation, isn’t it?” When Peter went pallid he began to chuckle, even raising a fist to his mouth and closing his eyes to relish the joke. “You get all hot and bothered and sucker people in with you?” He laughed even harder. “Oh, sweet Jesus. You _gotta_ be fucking with me. That’s why you had that little hobo posse trailing after you that day, right? Craving some ass.”

“Shut up,” Peter ordered, low and raw.

Sabretooth shook his head and kept on like no one had spoken at all. “No wonder they have you all holed up in here. Authorized personel only. Your ankles’d spend so much time in the air they’d sprout wings and fly clean off.” He grabbed Peter’s left foot and waggled it high, guffawing when Peter hissed and wrenched it free. “You really drew the short straw there, didn’t you Spidey?”

Peter was as still as stone. His pupils had retreated to tiny vicious pricks of black that stuck to Sabretooth’s every move like barbs. 

“Logan was better.”

The room went quiet. Sabretooth’s mouth hung open but he was no longer laughing. He had Peter fixed in a tense, unreadable stare.

“…The fuck did you just say?”

And Peter, who suddenly found himself brimming with the kind of cold that made you shiver in delight, filled the void with laughter of his own. It was high, thin, and delirious, and made it ache around the edges of his cutthroat grin. “What?” he spat, adder-like, “Jealous?”

Sabretooth had never looked less human. He was much more of his namesake now, eyes dark and glittering and sharpened teeth unveiled in his snarl. That old buzz in the back of his head swelled, but Peter was saavy enough to know he had to dodge the swipe that came for his middle, threatening to pour his guts over the mattress. 

He landed in a crouch on the glass, scowling and wishing desperately that his pants were still on. Sabretooth launched at him again and Peter leaped to the door this time. It was locked, of course it was locked, and Peter found himself calculating exactly how hard he would have to hit a man with regenerative abilities to keep him down for the count until someone toodled along to feed him breakfast. 

He ducked and rolled from another punch, slamming his cast elbow hard on the floor and crying out. “They’ll know!” he shouted, “They’ll know you were here if you leave a mark on me! I’m freaking off limits, remember? You said it!”

Sabretooth came for him again, and though Peter was already mid-jump the mutant had caught on well enough to the pattern to slam him in his middle and stop his escape. Peter dropped to the floor but skittered away, crouching low. “Then I’ll leave marks where they won’t fucking see them, you rat-faced little shit!”

Peter wasn’t about to give him the opportunity. He could only play keep away for so long in the cramped cell.

So he launched, knocking the man if not unconscious then at least on his back, and beat upon him with steely knuckles and primal shouts of fury. Sabretooth blossomed black and blue under every hit, blood drawing around the face, and it was all so perfectly unfair when the skin mended and the bruises were sucked back into nothing.

Sabretooth did not put up with Peter’s rampage for long. The claws were out and Peter sprung back to the wall to miss the swipe at his face, crouching in a tangle of limbs. Sabretooth tugged him loose by the bicep, and after a hasty tussle had him on his stomach on the mattress, his bulging, fur ridden forearm bearing into the back of Peter’s neck like an anvil. He could feel the weight on the mattress shift, Sabretooth looming over top of him and tugging his rear into the air. Peter spluttered and tried to move away, jamming his elbow back into Sabretooth’s ribs until the man lifted his hand off his neck and brutally slapped his cast. Peter yowled when the agony rippled through him, quaking as he clutched at the cast, as if holding it gently would soothe the hurt beneath the plaster. 

Sabretooth rubbed himself into the cleft of Peter’s ass. Growing hard again. Was that the healing thing, an extra benefit from an extra quick metabolism and mending cells? Peter writhed but made no headway on escape. The cock started out a little meaty, some give and limpness, but as Sabretooth rolled against him it went stiffer. Thick again, red hot. He could hear him spit copiously on his hand and cringed as he heard the man’s hand slipping over dick. Even worse, when Sabretooth crouched and aimed a glob of spittle directly at his hole.

“No,” Peter moaned into the mattress. Sabretooth pressed in, just the tip but still insistent. He shoved Peter’s head deeper into the mattress, but Peter still whimpered away, the patch under his mouth soaking with his drool. “No no no no…”

“You keep saying that, but we both know that in a minute,” Sabretooth paused to give a cruel shove in, burying halfway, “you’re going to be fucking _gagging_ for it. God’s little gift to you, Spidey.” He pushed in further, and Peter couldn’t help the childish sobs that wracked his frame. “Better buck up and enjoy it.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was all laid bare. She didn’t tell him who had been involved with Peter. Nothing so specific as that. But Mary explained his new powers, how he had been attacked by an old enemy and why the press insisted Spider-Man was dead, and that the real Peter and his Aunt had been abducted mere hours ago. Logan was stoic throughout, but Mary was getting to be a much better read of old grumps like him and could sense the tension in his jaw just as clear as she might a furious holler and a sneer.

“And no word on witnesses or the like, huh?” he growled. 

“No, but I’ve done some digging before.” Mary tapped her laptop. “I always keep track of what Peter does. Just in case it can help. I’ve got stuff on everyone he’s ever fought. I mean everyone. Even the vampires, which is – eugh –“ She waved her hand and tried not to be exasperated at how Logan didn’t even blink at the mention (what kind of a nutty world was she living in where she could talk about vampires with deadly seriousness and it didn’t involve the latest plot twist for the Salvatore brothers?) “—so it’s more about seeing who’s been creeping around New York that could possibly damage a car like that. They said the trunk was wrecked, like someone had squeezed it, and the top was gone and it had been thrown into a building, so they know it’s definitely something with super powers. And if Peter’s stupid thing was activated, then it didn’t have to be someone he’s met before. It could have been literally anyone.”

“You really narrowed it down, there,” was his sardonic congratulations. 

Mary drew in a deep breath. She dove off the bed for her lumpy backpack and fished out her lilac wallet, daisies embroidered on the side. “I’ll pay you,” Mary said as steadily as she could manage.

It was that simple offer – not the vampires, not the abduction itself – that got her a surly furrow of his brow. “For what?”

“I have a job. I can pay. Anything. Please.” She extricated the hundred dollars she had leased herself for the week. Mostly for that top she had been eying at Guess, but she could get a damn shirt whenever she pleased. “Look, this isn’t much, but I’ve got some saved up, I can run to the bank tomorrow—“

“Kid, I ain’t taking your burger joint money.”

Mary scowled. “You will take my burger joint money and you will like it.”

“Oh for fuck’s sakes.” Logan squeezed his temples as if her very presence gave him migraines. “No. Save for a car or some crap like a normal kid, Jesus. What are you asking me to do? Hunt him down?”

“Help me.” Mary thrust the money at him. “Help me find out what’s happened to them. S.H.I.E.L.D. says they’re on it but, they’re S.H.I.E.L.D.” She bit her lip. “Peter’s never been a priority to them. They deal with stuff in Korea and England and Iran, even. At the end of the day Peter’s just small fry. And his Aunt’s got a bad heart, and she’s never been mixed up in this stuff before. They might hurt her to get to him, or decide that she’s not worth keeping around…I’ve known them both since I was in _diapers_ , Logan.”

Logan wasn’t warming up to the idea. He had a look in his eye like he was spearing down her thoughts, one at a time, and all she could do was stand there with the money burning between her thumb and fingers and pray he’d take it. “And what about whoever’s got him?”

“I…” It had been a thought. Briefly. The twenties were crumpling as she tightened her grip, inched back the offer. 

“Are you asking me to take care of them too?” Logan said slowly. Mary’s shoulders drifted up, coralling her ears and she shook her head in spurts.

“I…don’t know.”

Logan took his sweet time assessing her. She was worried she might begin to sweat. She hadn’t ever seen the man try anything, get involved in a fight, and while there was a general meanness about him Mary was finding that she wasn’t prepared to have those cold eyes set on her. She knew she wasn’t in real danger, but knowing who this man was and what he was capable of, and, to a higher degree, what she was too scared to ask him to do, gave her chills that brought back times on top of the bridge, or watching Harry turn into a monster, the clone with only half of Peter’s face left on his skull grinning at her from behind the glass.

When Logan moved she flinched, but all he did was curl her fingers into her palm and push her hand back. “Keep it. I’ll do what I can and I don’t want no kinda payment from you.”

He stood, and Mary got a whiff of booze and sweat and something musky, and just as quickly as she could see how terrifying he might be, she could also understand how Peter might have wanted to take a taste of his lips. There was something about the way the shadows fell on his face and the scruffy stubble at his jaw, the broadness of his frame even if he wasn’t that much taller than her. Mary retreated a step, cowed thoroughly. 

“I owe the kid. I owe him a lot, actually. He’s put himself out on a limb for me a coupla times and I never paid him back for shit. And I owe you. For…you know.” He grimaced. Mary mimicked the expression.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Logan snorted. “I seem to remember a pair of fists flying at my face that thought something different.”

“I didn’t _know!_ ” When he only raised a brow at her she huffed and threw her hands in the air. “Fine! Yes, of course I’m still mad, but that’s neither here nor there! We just need to find them.”

“There won’t be a we. You’re staying here.”

Mary gaped. Then she did slap his arm, hissing with untold vitriol, “ _No._ ”

“What do you think you’re going to do out there? Bat your eyelashes and hope they’ll let ‘em go?” He pushed her onto her bed, hands clapped on her shoulders as if scolding a very small child. “Pretty as you are, that ain’t gonna fly. Could get ugly out there, and then where would you be?”

“With him,” Mary insisted. Emboldened by her indignation, she pushed his hands off and stuck a stern finger at him. “I know it will be dangerous, but I do not care. Do! Not! Care! And besides, what are you going to do if you do find Peter and he’s still giving off those creepy vibes? Huh?”

“That won’t—“

“No, you can’t guarantee it won’t happen again. Logan, you don’t know. It’s strong. For all we know that’s the whole reason that whatever took him, did. It’s already snagged you once. And maybe there’s like, a chance _I_ can stop it.” She spoke hurriedly now, slipping onto her feet again and pushing into Logan’s space, chiseling in her point. “It’s never happened around me. What if having me there can prevent it? Subconsciously, I mean. Stop him from omitting whatever the thing is? I’m his girlfriend, seeing me could jumpstart his brain or something.”

Logan regarded her curiously. She tried some more, “Or at least I’d be able to smack some sense into him. And you. Plus I’m immune, I’m a girl. I could protect him from that much.”

He breathed roughly through his nose, and he was wincing again and that brought Mary back to the idea of migraines. You would think hanging out at the Xavier school would make him immune to spunky teenage attitude. Evidently not, as his defiance dwindled to a curt nod and a glower. He gripped her bicep and leaned in close.

“Fine. But you do exactly as I say, when I say. When I say sit out, you sit out. Keep quiet, and cover your eyes if I damn well ask you too. But most of all, I say you turn around and high tail home, you better already be running. I ain’t getting none of your blood on my hands, not even for your boy’s sake.”

“Deal. Done.” Mary smiled grimly. It was a victory, but a small one on a long list of battles yet to fight. She would save her whooping for when the Parkers were home safe and sound.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow. There ain’t no point in you heading out when neither one of us’ got a clue what direction to look in. Keep – tch—“ he gestured vaguely at her laptop, “keep doing whatever you were doing over there, and I’ll fish for some leads tonight.”

“Why can’t I go with you tonight?”

“You over 21?”

“No,” Mary said irritably.

“Then what the hell would you be doing in a bar on a school night?”

Mary scowled and thinned her lips into a flat, seamless line. “You’re looking for leads in a bar.”

“I been at this longer than you, kid, don’t give me no shit.”

“I won’t if you don’t ditch me tomorrow.” She crossed her arms stubbornly. She got a grunt and a begrudging promise to keep his word, and she wrote the address and time he gave her down on the pad of paper by her laptop. Logan shook his head at her all the while.

“What were you gonna do if I didn’t show up here tonight?”

Mary shrugged. “I was going to call Johnny and Kitty.”

He groaned and pinched his nose. “You ain’t gonna call them now, are you?”

Though it seemed fair to at least warn them, Mary had to pause for that. Johnny and Kitty, who were both at least twice as qualified to be skulking around solving mysteries as her, were still teenagers and probably just as guileless as she was. Logan, on the other hand, was a man who knew the ropes. He knew how to do this right. So even if she herself was tagging along and generally making herself a nuisance, it would probably only be worse tacking on another two overeager teenage stragglers. No matter how superhumanly gifted those stragglers were. _Sorry guys,_ she thought with a cringe, but she still nodded firmly at Logan and told him, “No.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” He headed for her window. “And kid?”

“Yeah?”

He locked his eyes with hers, steady. Wary. “Leave something for your mom.” 

The idea settled stiffly between them. The hushed motor of a sheepish driver, returning late from a night in Manhattan and parking nearby, was the sole sound that made it to Mary’s room to shatter the peace.

She swallowed thickly and nodded again, and Logan crept out the way he came. She could hear him land heavy on the grass below her window, and moved forward to watch him stalk away, shrouded in black and too casual, too dauntless to belong on her little suburban street with its lazily coiffed hedgerows and vivid red tonka trucks left forgotten on the neighbour’s lawn. 

Did she move like that now? Did Peter? How much did it show in their gaits, their eyes, their hushed voices and tensed jaws, that they didn’t belong here anymore?

She gripped tight at her wrist. Her hand was tingling, and her stomach was rife with knots.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When the lights turned back on they fell onto a lumpy cocoon of blankets, inert on the mattress. Peter was near invisible under their shield and completely immobile. Still a little damp, his hair not quite dry yet though he had shivered off what little wet the blankets hadn’t soaked up. He had washed himself from head to toe in the tiny sink and vomited twice into the toilet, and left his hospital scrubs in exile in a corner in the bathroom. Somehow the blankets felt safer. More solid to his skin, even if he had to lay prone under them or clutch them close to keep from sudden exposure.

Not that he wanted to move anyway. 

He pulled the blankets over his head when he heard two sets of footsteps. He didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t even want to eat. 

The door hissed open and he cringed. He heard the footfalls stop. The crinkling of a paper. Rustles as it set on the floor, and it sounded more like a takeout bag than a stack of notes. The mattress dipped with new weight and Peter stopped breathing. He could feel the pressure of a hand on his back through the blankets. Small. 

“Peter?”

It was low, and hesitant. But still the voice came to his hears like a drop of honey. Peter rose, sitting back on his heels, and slowly pulled the corner of his bedsheets off his head and around his neck. 

Aunt May, alive and whole and in the same clothes she had worn when they were taken, was sitting on the bed. Behind the glass was Mystique, who raised her brows at him impassively and held up her hand. “You got five minutes.”

Peter gaped. The mutant stalked off to vanish around the corner, and his Aunt swallowed thickly and smiled at him with tears in her eyes. She spread her arms wide.

And Peter, pale and growing thick in the throat, launched into her embrace whole, letting the blankets fall to his waist and revelling in the smell of her hair, the familiar crook of her neck and how her fingers trailed softly over his spine.

“I’m here, sweetie. I’m here. It’s going to be all right.”


	13. Contingencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Peter shares a brief respite with his Aunt, everyone else fine tunes their plans. But there are new wrenches in the works for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of mild gore and violence at the end but I feel like it's pretty minor compared to the stuff that's already happened. Other than that, no warnings!
> 
> ...Except that it looks like a month is now the average time it takes for me to crank out chapters. Sorry about the added wait time, but I hope you'll bear with me! I am not abandoning it. 
> 
> And once again, thank you thank you thank you all for your kind words and kudos and general support, I'm stunned. Every time. <3 <3 <3 I'll reply to comments throughout this week, gotta run and take care of business!
> 
> -ETA: I meant to write 'I hope you'll bear with me', not 'you'll bear with me' which sounds perfectly awful and presumptuous. 8( That's what I get for not editing the notes as well as the fic.

“A placebo.”

“In a roundabout sense, yes.”

Nick Fury and Carol Danvers were both spearing Reed Richards with glares so molten he seemed to melt a little into his seat. Which was plausible, given his perturbing elasticity, and Nick would not have been the least surprised to see him welding his back into the chair. Sue Storm stood to his left, too antsy to sit, while Ben Grimm and Johnny Storm crowded his back like cartoon thugs. 

“So, my next question becomes, why were you so intent on duping a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who was coming to you with a legitimate, life threatening crisis?” Danvers fumed. She might snap her own humerus, the way she clutched at her arms so tight from the stern cross they were in. 

“Not that we’re ungrateful,” Nick tacked on pointedly. Danvers had the dignity not to scowl at him for it. 

“Well for one I was wondering why it wasn’t you yourself, Nick. Mr. Fury.” He flicked his tongue out to wet his parched lips and bashfully dipped his head. “Uh. You see, when Miss Danvers brought me the sample and asked for a gene cleansing agent, saying the subject was endangering himself and others and unable to control his own powers, I was rather shocked to find that the DNA sample was a 99.98% match to Peter Parker’s.”

“And why do you have _his_ DNA on file?” demanded Danvers.

“Because he’d come to us before! You remember – the clones? He’d found out he’d been cloned? I did the testing. He came to us first.”

“Good thing too, since you just showed up at his house with a pair of cuffs and all the brass you could muster,” Grimm rumbled from the back. 

“Yeah,” Johnny asserted with a glower. Sue hissed at them both to shush.

“And so…” Richards carried on thinly, “Well…that gave me cause to be suspicious, really, and so I just gave you a placebo to buy some time, because I couldn’t conceive of why you’d want to strip Spider-Man of his powers, or why you would have to lie about it if you were doing it for beneficial purposes. Especially when we had received a message about you people faking his death that same afternoon. And then I talked to Johnny, asked him if he knew about Peter being in some kind of trouble –“

“And that’s how we walked in on you planning to storm the Triskelion and take him back,” Danvers concluded.

“That was Johnny!” cried three quarters of the Fantastic Four. The accused only huffed and stuck his chin up stubbornly.

“Well excuse me if I was wasn’t down for you guys totally ruining my only friend’s life. Again.”

“What am I? Furniture?” Grimm interjected.

“My only friend that’s my actual age,” Johnny added peevishly. 

“Danvers might not have been acting of her own accord. One of the newer developments we’re going to need to look into.” Nick hoisted the thick manila folder from the table beside him and dropped it in Richards’ lap. “Detailed there in Tony Stark’s research. We need another pair of eyes on this. Stark knows biology, but he’s more of a weapons mogul. We could use someone with more refined experience in genetic manipulation. Storm? Richards?”

“Yes,” Sue said without hesitation. Richards looked a tad more green around the gills. 

“Of course, yes, we’ll help, but it’s going to be difficult to test anything when he’s not here.”

“Has there been any word?” Sue pushed, her eyes broad and earnest, and Nick had half a mind to rescind his offer and send her out. This was the same reason he had forbade anyone from passing him a phone with Mary Jane Watson on the line unless she had stumbled on something useful. He could still hear Mrs. Parker, her simmering rage thinly cloaked under calm and matronly reproach. _Not even one day. One single day and this is what happens._

Nevermind that he hadn’t slept – no one had slept, extra manpower and brain power and whatever other forces he could muster were on the front lines. Even though his hands were tied even now. Pleas for extra funds always fell on deaf ears, and while those with America’s reins in hand were always concerned with super powered maniacs on the loose, Nick could not wrangle more money or more time out of anyone for the sake of one boy. If he was affiliated with politics, or signed onto some team rather than leading life as a loose cannon, more alarms would have been sounded. He’d be able to look as long as he wanted, use as many resources as he pleased. Yet as it stood, the longer Parker was missing the more likely he would get put on the back burner, left for dead unless some miraculous clue turned up years later. 

Nick was hardly the only one tearing his hair out (so to speak) over the loss. Tony Stark was dipping into personal funds and reappropriating what he could of Stark Industries’ resources while keeping his employees in the dark about Peter’s identity. Probably because he was still vying for forgiveness over fucking him. And of course, the Ultimates were pulling through. A lot of them took it quite personally. Van Dyne and Rogers especially, both of whom volunteered to scour the city’s underbellies and seedy organizations for guilty parties and witnesses. 

So when people like Sue or Johnny or the Watson girl came up to him and threw him boiling slander or puppy dog eyes as if there was more he could be doing, sometimes Nick had a hard time keeping his fist from curling into cruel purpose. 

“We’re doing all we can,” he replied stiffly. Her lips pursed though she pressed no further, and her brother huffed and sneered to her side. Nick shot him a plain and deadly stare, and Johnny had the good sense to drop his gaze to the floor and stiffen on the spot. Having one eye always helped when you needed a little menace. He dropped the matter and gestured to their original interrogation subject. “As for your question, Richards, we do have someone to test on.”

Richards and the other (barely) adults were stunned, but Johnny looked nothing but hopeful. “You mean—“

Danvers was already typing rapid fire, summoning the screen to life. It displayed a webcam feed of a downtrodden Jessica Drew, reclining in her cell and finishing off a grapefruit, the last standing survivor from her hearty S.H.I.E.L.D. issued breakfast. She was making use of the laptop they had the pity to bestow upon her, which one could tell from the angle and how closely situated the camera was to her bed covers. She looked a shade startled, head cocked and brows furrowed at the suddenness of the call. “Oh? Uh, hi Nick. Miss Danvers. Hey, you’ve got a whole gang in there.”

“Since we can’t have her here in person,” Danvers provided.

“Is this one of the clones?” Richards said, gaping openly and standing out of his chair for the first time since he had arrived. “Remarkable – but why did they alter the gender?”

Jessica cringed in repulsion. “Listen, Bucko. You are _not_ allowed to ask me what freaking Doctor Octopus was thinking when he put boobs on me. Not this early in the morning.”

Richards went pink around the ears and Grimm lightly swatted him upside the head. “Dork.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Richards held up his hands as a measure of peace. “Let’s try that again. I’m Reed Richards.“

“I know.” Jessica patted her head with her index finger. “I’ve got like ninety five percent of his life stored up in here. I know who you are. Nice to meet you in sort-of person?”

“And so…what do we call you?” Sue tried, covering her shock with even tones and a tautly kept nonchalance. 

“Her name is Jessica,” announced Johnny. His surly teenage piss fit was broken for the moment, a small, affectionate smile curling the sides of his mouth as he strode closer to the monitor and waved. “Hey. Glad to see you stopped being stubborn.”

Jessica looked down at the blankets and fiddled with an errant lock of hair. “Yeah, well…Um. So you guys are here to help find Peter? Have you heard—“

“No,” Nick quickly interjected, unwilling to deal with another hissy fit from the girl. Danvers had been the one to deliver the news to her and had returned looking like she had lost a year on her life and demanding a triple shot americano. And that had been over speakerphone. “Kid, they’re here to help fix you. They’re going to be doing the testing from now on.”

The shut gate on the Parker situation was clearly still rankling her chains, judging from how her jaw clenched and the deep breath she took in through flared nostrils, but the mention of a cure softened her as a whole and her gaze snapped to Richards, then Sue. “So…okay. Okay, I guess I’m all right with that. You need blood samples?”

“Well yes,” Richards insisted. “Among other things. I think it would be beneficial to take stock of what the physiological states are when you’re under-going these little spells, both of you and who you’re affecting—“

“Whoa! Hold it, Dr. Jekyll. No ‘in action’ testing. Ever.” There was a choppy waving of her finger, pixelated and lagging. “I came here to get smooch free and I am staying smooch free.” Johnny opened his mouth and Jessica was back at it with her scolding finger. “I said no!”

He retreated, dejected. “I’m not perving! I’m just saying I’d do it if it’s the only thing that would help. Pete’s my buddy, so you are too!” He watched Jessica, who seemed nothing more than taken aback by the abrupt declaration. It only spurred him further. “Right? Better me than anyone else. I know what’s going on and that it’s not right or real. Plus we’re the same age. See?”

Jessica cast her eyes about her cell and wriggled on the spot. “Technically speaking I’m still a wee toddler child.”

“And you have my permission to punch me out if I get too close,” Johnny continued doggedly. “Right, Reed? We wouldn’t have to actually do stuff, we just have to let it like, affect each other enough that you could do your little science skinnamarinky-doos, and then that’s that. Right?”

“Essentially speaking, yes. It’s the most ethical approach if we’re to do that sort of testing. We might have to use restraints to make sure you two don’t actually get close, unless touch is a factor.”

“It isn’t,” Jessica retorted sourly. “Guys, seriously, a guy broke into my apartment to get into my pants. It’s not something we can just like, poke at to see what happens.”

“Listen, Jessica,” Nick said, clapping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder in a measure of support. The kid startled, but didn’t shake Nick off. “We’re running out of options. Even if we do get Peter Parker back, he’s still going to be at the mercy of this crap power you two’ve up and sprouted. And there’s no guarantee keeping you caged up and visitor free will save you, either. We’ve already lost Parker. You really want someone to come gunning for you?”

That shut her up. Though it opened Danvers’ mouth in exchange. “I didn’t come ‘gunning’ for him, dammit.”

Nick ignored her. “I’ll leave Danvers with you to help arrange whatever experiments need to get done. And anyone who isn’t helping with—“ He turned and narrowed his eye. With Sue and Richards enlisted and the youngest Storm volunteering as a guinea pig, that left one. He shot Grimm an incredulous look. “Are you really the only one I can kick out?”

“No can do,” Grimm insisted. He leaned against the wall as if he owned the whole building. “I’m the team mascot. I leave, the morale withers and dies.”

“It’s true,” Sue said with a shrug and a smirk. Nick scantly refrained from loosing more expletives out loud. 

“Then I’m leaving. Don’t break shit. Don’t go wandering. No snooping through our records,” he said pointedly at Richards. “You go where Danvers permits you to go and you do as she says. You are here on our good graces alone. And we’ll kick the lot of you back into the Baxter Building if you cause any new messes. I’ve got enough on my damn plate right now and I don’t need none of you heaping on seconds.”

Richards and Sue exchanged perplexed glances. “He’s saying it like we invited the mole people to invade New York,” Sue said.

“Didn’t you?” Nick drawled, and after nodding to the morose Jessica on the monitor he made for the door. “Next time I hear from any of you, it had better be with some good news.”

Behind him, Danvers sighed the sigh of someone who had just inherited a dozen children in a family will. The last thing he heard upon leaving was her weary plea.

“Seriously you guys, please don’t break our shit.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Though Mystique had left them alone (save for whatever voyeurs they had via camera, which Peter had no doubt would be on again by now), they didn’t move from their embrace. If anything Peter snuggled harder into her shoulder and squeezed her tighter. She rubbed his back and then combed his hair with a feathery touch. A serenity unlike anything he’d known settled over him. The jumpstart to his pulse, the pressure of fresh tears at his eyes in gratitude for the simple glimpse of her face, the tremble in his hands: all of it withered away. He was the most calm he could remember being in his life. Invincible and safe with her.

But they didn’t have much time.

“Did they hurt you?” Peter asked blearily. 

“No, sweetheart. They haven’t. Have they hurt you? Where are your clothes?”

He didn’t mean to do it, but with her here his resolve melted, and he couldn’t stop the words from flooding out of his mouth. “This guy came – that Sabretooth guy, the creepy looking wolfy one – he came in here last night.”

She retracted, holding him at arm’s length and gone ashen. Her eyes darted between his. “You mean…”

The whole ordeal spilled out of him. Unbidden. Unwanted, as if it were being tugged out of him on a chain. Though the details were brutal he was inconceivably serene as he divulged them. Nothing seeming to register quite right. His Aunt burned at the brims of her ears, eyes glittering darkly and her teeth gritted. “It won’t happen again.”

“Aunt May—“

She gripped his wrist, tight, and Peter felt a warmth like a hot bath settle over his mind. All he could see was Aunt May. “I’ll make sure of it,” she ascertained. Something about the strength of her voice, though she spoke not much louder than a whisper, made Peter believe her. He nodded and she kissed his forehead and hugged him again.

“Hold out your arm,” she requested. It was already outstretched before she could even reach the paper bag she had set beside the bed. Peter didn’t startle when she pulled out a medical kit, and from it drew an empty needle and a vial. Nor when she dabbed at his bicep with alcohol soaked cotton and coerced the needle into a vein, as if she had been doing so her whole life. He watched lazily as it swilled full, pumped ripe with his blood, and then dripped it into the vial for safekeeping. She plastered a bandage on and fished out a second needle from the kit. This one was already topped up with a clear solution.

“To help you get better,” she said with a smile.

“Like the one from Janet?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was already in his arm and pushing the medicine in. Initially it struck him woozy, but much like Janet’s serum it fizzled into normalcy momentarily. She patched him up the same, and he prodded at the bandaids with a small perplexity. Then she started unthreading the stitches from his shoulder, with more tiny, fussy medical tools she had pulled out of the paper bag. She had taken that First Aid course after she had found out that he was Spider-Man, insisting on being able to help him when she could. He supposed there must have been something in there about taking out stitches and administering shots. Maybe. He could have asked but he caught a glimpse of her eyes, bright and blue, and he thought it didn’t matter so much at all. 

She pressed breakfast at him next, a plastic plate and mug each with covers that housed scones and fruit and still piping hot chocolate, and she cupped his cheeks and looked into his eyes.

“Peter, I know that it’s been hard so far. That we’ve gone through some awful things to come here, and that you’re alone in this cell and you feel like you can’t trust these people. But they do want to help you. And your mutant power might not even be the same when it’s fixed, when they get rid of what’s in the way. It might be something better. And even if it isn’t, they can help you learn to control it. To use it, to make it bend to your will, and even evolve.” 

Peter tried to turn away from her then, his gut giving a sudden jump, but she gently pressed at his jaw and he was caught in her eyes again, and he realized that she might be right. “You could be something spectacular.”

“Yeah?” he pursued.

“Absolutely.” She tapped the end of his nose and he pulled away with a laugh. “Just hold on for a while longer. They’ll take care of you.”

He heard the click and thud of a door, distantly, and a measure of footsteps that he was now able to pinpoint as Mystique’s for certain. She materialized at the glass with a bundle over one arm, looking more wary than irritable, her gaze keen and hot on Peter with a taut line about her mouth. 

“Come out here for a sec,” she called, crooking a finger at his Aunt. Peter was loathe to let her go but Aunt May slid out of his grasp as smoothly as ocean waves, and he didn’t pursue. He was still naked under the blankets, after all, and grown snug and content in place on the bed. She gathered the paper bag and slipped out the door, exchanging the bag for the bundle with Mystique. The cell door popped open again to permit her a second time and clicked shut on cue. She held the bundle out to him.

“They’ve brought you some new clothes. Better than some flimsy old scrubs. Will you put them on once we’re gone?”

“Sure,” Peter agreed. He took the offering with his good hand and set the bundle beside the plate of food. 

“And eat your breakfast. All of it.”

“Sure thing, Aunt May.”

She beamed at him and stroked his hair. “That’s my boy. I’ll be by later, all right? From now on, I’m the only one that comes in and out of your room.”

“Okay,” Peter agreed. He grinned at her toothily. 

“My little man,” she said proudly. She hugged him around the shoulders and Peter did his best to reciprocate with one hand, and then she was making for the exit again. His heart sunk as she disappeared behind the door, then waved to him from behind the glass. Mystique took her by the shoulder and led her away. 

Peter examined the breakfast tray. He didn’t have much of an appetite, but his Aunt said he should eat. The scone was moist, freshly baked, but thick in his mouth and somewhat tasteless. He chewed in contemplative silence.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mary Jane Watson didn’t bring her backpack. Or her purse. All she had was her phone in one pocket and her thin wallet in the other, stuffed with cash, her student ID and a picture of Peter hugging his Aunt that she had printed out last night tucked between the twenties. She wore sunglasses and sturdy boots, and a worn pair of jeans. After looking in her closet for decent head gear she had to stop herself, because she was a leather jacket and a cowboy hat away from trying to dress as Logan’s Mini Me. It hadn’t been on purpose. Not entirely.

But it was enough of a difference that as she approached Kong’s car in the school parking lot, the bedraggled boulder of a boy looked her way twice before he realized what he was seeing. 

“MJ?” he croaked. His face was a solemn shade of gray, but there was enough dregs of color remaining to drain at the sight of her face.

“Hey,” she said, somewhat more quietly and more timidly than what she had imagined. Something cool, Buffy-assertive and all business, maybe. She wasn’t as brave as she had been rehearsing in the mirror last night. “Kong, those messages you sent me?”

“Yeah?” Kong scrambled out of his car and fumbled to shut the door, shaking around the hands. He crowded her close. “What is it? What happened?”

Here, she could draw on her real frustration. Real grief. It was fortunate for her that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s cover story about a tumor meant she wouldn't have to do too much acting. “Stop. It wasn't funny. Did Flash put you up to it? Peter’s in the hospital and he's not okay. Seriously, I have no clue where you got the idea—“

His eyes sparked, and life returned with a bleed of red in his cheeks. “No. MJ, don’t.”

“Listen to me, Kong—“

“I’m not dumb, okay? I know, I’ve known for forever. That spider? That one that bit him? And he’s gone from class all the time and when he is here he’s got like nine hundred bruises? And then him and Kitty Pryde? They can’t even look each other in the eye. And you don’t like her because she was with him, right?”

“Whaaaat is this about Kitty Pryde?” Speak of the devil, and so she appears. Mary turned to find Kitty at her shoulder. Likely she had been magnetically drawn by the sight of the two in tense conversation. “Hi, Kong.”

“Peter Parker was Spider-Man and now he’s dead,” Kong spat vehemently. Kitty gasped out loud. Consciously or not, she brushed Mary’s hand, making to grab it until she wisened up and snapped it away. 

“What do you mean?” she said, stammering slightly. Mary only barely suppressed the grimace of exasperation nudging at her cheeks. So much for keeping it subtle.

“Don’t! He’s gone and you’re still trying to shut me out? That isn’t fucking fair! That isn’t—” he dropped off the tirade suddenly, glancing between them. “Why…why aren’t you guys crying? You went out with him. Why aren’t you…”

“Because he isn’t Spider-Man?” Mary insisted. There was some attempt at playing clueless, and she sent Kitty a bewildered look as if to say, ‘Can you believe this bozo?’ “Kitty? Come on. You dated the guy. There’s no way that Peter was Spider-Man.”

Kitty’s lip curled, and Mary knew she was putting her in a crappy position, and maybe they weren’t in that beautiful state of girl sync where they could carry on entire conversations entirely through shifty glances but Mary made silent pleas regardless. 

Not that it mattered once a fourth voice joined the fray. “Guys?”

In tandem, all three turned to see Liz Allan, standing off to their right and looking every inch like an abandoned puppy. “Guys…you…” Her mouth seemed not to be working properly. She teetered forward gracelessly and grasped Mary by the arm. “MJ. MJ, please tell me it’s not actually him.”

Mary stared, frozen. Liz carried on with halting phrases and quakes in her hands. “I just…after Kong called me last night…everyone’s been talking and like, Spider-Man’s dead and the news said he goes to this school and everyone’s saying that the only person who’s missing has been Peter. Is Peter…”

Mary couldn’t breathe. She cast her gaze over the lawn. There were clumps of people, more of them than usual it seemed, gathered in huddles. The school had a strange hush about it, even though the muddle of voices could reach them out here. She could even see faces, mottled by distance, looking their way as if trying to count their numbers.

“I shouldn’t have…” Mary trembled. Kitty was suddenly gripping her other arm, holding her steady as Liz kept her desperate clutch in tact. “Oh my god. It’s…”

“They’re all saying it, MJ,” Liz insisted. Tears were slipping down her face, but she kept her eyes wide and open. “It’s not true, right? Please. It’s not true. That’d be silly right? Pete’s so like, he’s so small and skinny, there’s no way he’d be Spider-Man. It’s impossible.”

Mary took her in, at how she was starting to sniffle, her lip quavering. She looked at Kong, withdrawn and accusing and hurt. She looked at Kitty, who was agape and as lost as she. Then she turned to the lawn again, where her classmates and juniors and seniors gathered and gossiped and Mr. Foggerty was shambling down the steps and ushering them in, stiff backed and white as a sheet.

It hadn’t started with Kong. It had started on its own. MJ couldn’t be sure whether S.H.I.E.L.D. had held up its promise to spread word that Peter was on a deathbed quite separate from Spider-Man’s. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was just one absence too many, one excuse too many. 

Too late. She was too late, just like always.

“He’s…he is.” Mary gulped. The drumming of her blood was roaring in her ears. 

“ _MJ!_ ” Kitty hissed.

“Oh my god,” Liz moaned, cupping both her hands to her mouth. “No! It’s not true, it’s not Pete. MJ, just tell me it’s not Pete, _please_ – ” Tears rolled out of her in torrents and she shook her head, curls flying. Kong choked and turned, resting his forehead on the roof of his car and sobbed through clenched teeth. 

“Not the dead thing. He’s not dead!” Mary barked. Both of them returned their focus to her, owl-eyed. Kitty was carding her hands through her hair and muttering curses to herself in high pitched tones. “Guys. Just keep it cool today. Okay? You need to do this for me. For Peter. Tell them they found a tumor and that’s why he’s not here.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” Kong flung his hands in the air. “One of you, tell me what’s going on or I swear to god—“

Mary snatched him by the lapels and squared him in the eye. “He’s gone missing. Him and his Aunt. Someone ripped their car apart and snatched them clean out of it, and we don’t know why or who or anything, all right? That’s the truth. Congrats. You’ve figured him out and you’ve figured me out. But you _cannot_ let everyone else keep talking about it like this. Capsice?”

“What?” Liz said thinly. “So…so he’s not even…but then why are they saying he’s dead already?” She shook her head again. “How is this actually – how did Peter get to even be Spider-Man? What’s going on?”

She did not have time for this. “Kitty?”

The mutant continued tugging at her hair and glowering at MJ, as if wishing to twine her fingers around her neck instead. Hers was a mania barely concealed. “What the hell are you freaking doing, Mary Jane?”

“Look, if it was just you and me against the rumor mill, it’s not worth anything, right? Everyone knows you dated Spider-Man, and everyone knows I’m dating Peter. Our defenses aren’t going to mean much. But if Liz and Kong can back us up that it isn’t Peter, then maybe we can fend it off a bit. Even slightly.”

“Um, did you or did you not hear about how literally everyone in the school has guessed that Peter Parker is Spider-Man?” She pointed at Liz, who took a break from bewilderment and grief to scowl at her.

“It wasn’t my fault! I heard about it from Tandy!”

“Guys! Shut up for two seconds and just do what I’m telling you!” Mary ordered. Quiet reigned again. “We can do this. Just give me one day. It’s Friday, it will just be one day. I promise. Help me cover for him. I’m begging you.”

“MJ, so you’ve just been lying to me?” Liz shook her head. “You’ve had his whole other life and you couldn’t trust me enough to tell me?”

Mary pressed her palms to her eyes, her own tears threatening to form. Trust Liz to go straight for the gut. “It’s not my secret life. It’s Peter’s. I just got mixed up in it.”

“Liz,” Kong called, much more softly and calmly than before. “Look, dude’s gotta keep a secret. You remember when that Goblin dude busted up our school. Or those weird guys kidnapped Flash because they thought he was Spider-Man. That stuff only happened because more people were finding out about Peter. Am I right?” He shrugged. “It’s why I didn’t say anything.”

Mary could have thanked Thor and all the weird Norse deities in Asgard for the return of reason. She smiled gratefully at Kong. “Yeah. That’s a big part of it.” MJ put a hand on both of their shoulders. Kitty watched from the side, stiff as a board and frowning. “Which is why I really need you guys to help me here. Tell them he’s sick. There should be reports coming in to the teachers saying the same thing. You guys back that up, and we’ll have a chance. Okay?” She paused. “Do we have to huddle? Kitty, get in the huddle.”

“Oh lord,” Kitty rolled her eyes but entered their boney, limp-limbed circle. Kong’s arms nearly stretched around all three girls at once, and Liz still favored MJ as her clinging partner of choice. “The X-Men never made me huddle.”

“Well this is a Mary Jane Watson special, so deal with it,” she said with no room for ifs ands or buts. “We need to keep up appearances. I know the moment I get in there people are going to be on my butt about Peter, so help me out and fend a few off. Anyone asks you, I’m inconsolable because of Peter’s tumor thing. The official story from S.H.I.E.L.D. is that it’s in his brain. That’s what the teachers will have heard, if they’ve already spread the word. We’ll back that up. And Kitty? You’re going to have to—“

“—Be broken up anyway because my ex-boyfriend Spider-Man is dead, yeah yeah.” Her feet scuffled on the ground and her arms twitched as if to draw out of the circle, but she refrained. “What am I saying when they ask me who he was? That I’m not allowed to say?”

“In case his family will get hurt, yeah,” MJ nodded. “He still has big time enemies out there, it makes sense. And if pressed just. I don’t know, make stuff up. Anything to get the heat off Peter. Just lie out of your butt until you can’t lie anymore. And nobody bring up Spider-Man unless someone else does it first. Got it?” 

There was a pause. Kong frowned. “Are we going to break on three?”

“Uh, sure,” Mary said slowly. “One…”

“Oh for pete’s sake,” Kitty muttered. Liz glared at her from across the circle and Mary nudged her with an elbow.

“Two. Three.” 

They all slipped out. Liz rushed back in immediately and squeezed Mary Jane into the most desperate hug she had ever given her. Mary’s heart leaped upwards and knocked against her throat. She hugged the girl back, and Liz pressed a kiss to her cheek when they drew apart. 

“I’m really sorry, MJ. For all the times I made fun of him, or told you he wasn’t any good,” She pressed her fingers to her lips. “I didn’t know.”

Kong scooped her up next. MJ couldn’t embrace him all the way around like she could with Liz. To her surprise, he also kissed her cheek. He still looked forlorn as he drew away. “Is there anything we can do to help him?”

“Um. Not yet,” MJ said. “I’ll let you know if there is. ASAP.”

“You two go ahead,” Kitty ushered. “I’ll catch up.”

They both had a hard time keeping their gaze ahead, necks craning back to stare at the pair of them. Liz was crying again and Kong wrapped one arm around her shoulders and led her off, finally making serious headway to class. Kitty appraised MJ from head to foot, teeth gritted and mouth in a mean line.

“You honestly think that’s this is going to keep people from spreading the word?”

She didn’t have to answer. The way she studied her boots was enough answer for them both.

“And you weren’t going to come to class, were you?” Kitty poked her shoulder. “Where’s your backpack?”

Mary covered her face. “Can you blame me?”

“Are you sneaking out without me? Or Johnny? Come on, that’s low, MJ. What do you expect to do by yourself?” 

She hadn’t had much of a reason to leave school. Logan wanted to meet later that night, and for appearance’s sakes she ought to stay in class. But she was so squirrelly and dreading dealing with Kong all day after thinly convincing him that he was wrong about Peter, and spending another minute staring at a blackboard while Peter and his Aunt were gone and possibly dead by now would have driven her insane. “…It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“MJ, come on. You can do this. There’s nothing better for Peter we can do right now than make sure that there isn’t a CNN special in his honor when he gets back.”

“Or a bunch of mobsters staking out his house,” Mary conceded with a sigh.

“Believe me, I am furious too. I am mad and I hate being stuck behind and if Liz hadn’t just strolled up here to play world’s worst messenger, I would be running off with you.” She frowned. “That was why I came over in the first place. Honest.” 

MJ blinked at her. Forget Liz. Kitty was twisting the knife now. Logan’s name and their haphazard plan nearly spilled from her mouth right then and there, because if Kitty was being sincere then she really believed they were in this together. And here Mary was, creeping around behind her back. 

But she kept her mouth shut tight on the matter, and nodded tensely. “Thank you. Kitty.”

Mary wasn’t sure what to do from there. Her arms raised an inch, and when she dropped them Kitty raised hers, and they both shuffled inelegantly on their feet. 

“Um.” Kitty coughed. Just as Mary’s mouth opened to ask if they were going to hug, the other girl barked out, “Let’s get to class,” and spun away on her heel, head bowed. 

“I don’t have my stuff!” Mary called out.

“Then I’ll lend you stuff,” Kitty retorted, waving her forward.

And that was that. People were filing into the school now. Mary joined the fray behind Kitty, shoulders hunched around her front and watching the ground, hoping that no one noticed, heart beating out in orchestral revolutions. 

But of course everyone did notice, and the whispers raised to roars and she could hear people calling out her name, Kitty’s name.

Welcome to Hell, Mary Jane Watson, she thought bitterly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The metal rod was approximately three inches in diameter. Hollow, and torn around the ends with strands that reached out in coils from where it had been twisted loose. It was originally several feet long, but had been divided into three near equal parts; one of which was punched through Sabretooth’s left palm and into the shallow breadth of wall behind. The second was similarly placed in his right hand. The third was embedded cleanly through the solar plexus, segregating the tender bundle of nerves from the rest of him and setting his every sense on fire. Blood drizzled down his stomach. He panted through gritted teeth, jaw nearly locked in an effort to hold in the strain of the scream trying to claw its way out of him.

“Thanks to your selfishness, he might never come to trust us. Even with proper persuasion.”

“I didn’t fucking _know_ that his—“ The rod wrenched in his gut and Sabretooth stopped speaking. Out came an animal’s groan, a protest of pain too great to relay.

“What you did and did not know is irrelevant. He is a guest here. Not a prisoner. And did I or did I not specify that only those with my permission were allowed to see him?” Magneto rapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair, unmoved by how his subordinate twisted and grunted and seeped blood copiously from around the rods. “Were you one of those people?”

“No…” came the thin response. 

“I can understand that perhaps you were not acting entirely of your own accord. That is understandable. But your weakness, and your disobedience, and the possibility that now our efforts to save Peter Parker have all gone to waste cannot go ignored. Not to mention the needless brutality of it all.”

Sabretooth snorted, teeth bled a watery pink under the bubbles of blood that invaded his mouth every once in a while as the pipes twisted and cut anew. The low laugh he gave did not escape Magneto’s notice, but it escaped without comment nonetheless.

“You know,” he rumbled low, pausing to hiss and pant, “he ain’t never gonna come around to us.”

“And does that justify how you treated him?”

“He ain’t gonna join us. Ever. Little fuck had been sucking X-Men cock even before he started macking on Shadowcat. And his Auntie—“

“I am aware.”

“How long you think you can keep it up?”

At last Magneto was forced to sigh. He pinched at his temples. The rods wrenched loose, and Sabretooth collapsed to his knees as each hole sprayed anew, sullying the wall and the floor and spattering at his clothes and arms. Magneto paid no attention to how he curled around the injuries and struggled to hold in the miserable keens of pain. The rods clattered to the floor next to him. 

“I had hoped…” Magneto said, trailing off as he rubbed deep at the side of his head, an admission of the futility before he had even made his rebuttal. Nonetheless, he tackled the thought again. “I was sincere in my wishes to see him realize his mutant potential. This Oz business. That formula that is masking it, it’s revolting. Appalling, what mankind is doing to delay the inevitable. He deserved better. Whether we can fix it still remains to be seen. We’ve only just started on his blood samples today. It could be tomorrow, or it could be years. But more worrisome is his attitude – and the potential of pursuit from S.H.I.E.L.D.

“We may not have years. There is only so long the illusion of my incarceration can be maintained. As well as the nature of his disappearance. And thus far, his mutant power has been a cause of nothing but misery to him. In ways currently unprecedented. Had it been a simple matter of accidental deaths or damages, we would know how to counsel him properly, convince him to hone those skills for the better. Sexual assault…” He shook his head. “It may not be the true nature of his powers, hindered as they are in his current condition, but convincing him to embrace them will be difficult, if not impossible. Not without intensive telepathic manipulation, and I am aware of the fragility of such measures. Charles’ attempt to keep me hidden and misguided failed, and he is the most adept of his kind. We can keep him placated, but only for so long.”

“Then what are we keeping him for?” Sabretooth grunted. He was healing already, the holes closing in with shoots of nerves and red muscle strings and shards of bone pushing out of the broken edges. “Gut him and ditch him.”

“As I said, we may yet be able to fix him. It’s difficult, but not impossible. However,” Magneto nodded and waved a hand through the air, “I have been aware of the risks from the start. In the likely event that he cannot be cured in due time, and that he cannot come around to see reason, there are other uses for him. Spider-Man is a world-renowned celebrity, after all.”

Sabretooth had returned to his feet, wiping whatever was still wet on the leg of his pants with a sneer. Though he now stood above Magneto the man made no move to raise his head to meet his eye. If anything he dipped his head lower, letting his brows and the shadows of his deep set eyes move his expression into contemplative predation. Cold. Calculating.

“What sort of panic would arise, I wonder, if it were revealed that the American government had tried to cover up a mutation with their own concoction?” Magneto’s brows furrowed further. “One that ruined the child. One that _killed_ him. An innocent fifteen year old boy, propped on a pedestal for media and glory, dead because the government wished to take credit for his successes. Norman Osborn’s project was funded by the state, after all. And if the records are to be believed, Peter is the only subject thus far that has escaped the insanity and transformations that come along with Oz. As a cause of death, it’s plausible.”

Sabretooth considered that. After a tense, prodding pause, his mouth lifted, half a smile and a snort of agreement. “Ain’t too far off the shit they’re already pulling.”

“If nothing else, it would be incentive for undecided mutants to join our cause. Perhaps it might sway some of Charles’ brood over to us again, considering how close they are with Spider-Man. His youth might even persuade human America to riot. There are enough sympathizers mixed in with the bigots to expect an uproar, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Sabretooth licked the remaining blood off his teeth and grinned.

“But not yet. We still have some time to work with him. He would be very influential, living or dead, to our cause. So I would appreciate if you would keep mum on this, Sabretooth. I’d rather not have anyone else decide to make a preemptive strike against Peter when he’s in such a fragile state.”

“He ain’t exactly a wilting daisy. Kid can hold his own, even with a busted arm.”

“Even so,” Magneto insisted. “You will not see him again. No one will, unless permitted to do so by me.”

Sabretooth complied, nodding, but stayed to press one last point. “But if it goes the other way, and he needs to be gone. You’re gonna poison him?”

“Perhaps. He’ll die in whatever fashion will provide the best autopsy.”

Dissatisfaction put the curl in his lip now, made him cluck his tongue. “Shame. Wouldn’t mind wringing that spindly little neck myself.”

That was about the end of Magneto’s tolerance for Victor Creed. He waved the man towards the door, remaining otherwise quite still in his seat. “Take a walk.” When he was gone Magneto frowned, touching his lips in thought. Regret, perhaps, or teetering on the edge of distaste. The fine lines drawn between his brows were difficult to discern. 

“What a waste,” he muttered to the air.


	14. Gossip Folks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world slowly begins to clue in to the mystery of Spider-Man, and Mary Jane gets more than she bargained for when she finally teams up with Logan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right I named this chapter after a Missy Elliot song. Fight me.
> 
> Warning for mild gore and violence in this chapter. What's a field trip with Wolverine without it?
> 
> Again, thank you to all you kind readers, new and old alike. You bring me so much joy and inspiration and this would have probably been abandoned eons ago without you all. This is honestly the longest thing I have ever written in my life and I wouldn't have known it was possible before. (It's sitting at over 200 pages in Word, good god.) Thank you thank you thank you, you are the best <3

It was 2:00 pm, and Midtown High was the definition of pandemonium.

“I have to go,” Mary said, voice low and pallid as paper. Her eyes roved, past the cameras and sharply dressed men and women in business heels and shined shoes, and she fought to shoulder her way through them down the steps of her school. Even with the principal at her elbow and three cops glued to her side and shouting at the crowd to disperse, she found a microphone under her nose yet again.

“Miss Watson! What do you say to the allegations that Spider-Man’s death is a cover-up?”

“I don’t know anything,” she asserted. The flash of bulbs turned her blind when they popped at her from all angles, and her head lost all weight. She raised her hand to cover her face and shouted louder. “My boyfriend is _sick_ , he’s got cancer for god’s sakes.”

The principal tugged her hard, “Everyone, go! There is no Spider-Man conspiracy here! You are harassing my students and I _will_ be seeking legal—”

“Mary Jane! Are you concerned about Peter Parker’s privacy and security while he recovers?”

“What do you think about the online petition to canonize—“

“Where exactly is your boyfriend staying for treatment?”

“If Peter isn’t our man, then can you comment about your own Spider-Man theories?”

“How do you explain Peter Parker’s absences from school coinciding with Spider-Man’s disappearances from the public—“

It had started as rumors, whispers, then shouts down the hall. No one paid attention in class and Kong had snapped and punched Flash in the eye when he wouldn’t stop hounding her and Kitty with questions, and both were sent out of class. Liz snapped at several people, who only yelled back at her with the foulest language and sent her into livid tears when one of them called her a fat lying bitch. Kitty had phased through the floor to escape a mob in the halls after first period, and Mary had fled Chemistry to hide in the bathrooms until class and lunch alike were over. Her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing. People she didn’t know existed were texting her, calling her, all without cessation.

There was a Facebook group within the hour: “Peter Parker was Spider-Man!! Mourn with Midtown!!” with several thousand likes and members, the count only crawling closer to the million mark with each passing second. The girl who started it was in twelfth grade, and Mary knew for a fact the only time she had ever spoken to Peter was a month ago, when she was handing out slices of Hawaiian pizza in the cafeteria to raise money for prom. Bleeding hearts and spiteful naysayers alike were flooding the wall with post after post. Stories spread about his Aunt’s disappearance, fueling the fire when it was confirmed she had been inexplicably absent from work. There were pictures of Peter posted in the Facebook group, on Reddit, on CNN, and goddamn TMZ and the New York Times, on Yahoo Japan and sites in languages she couldn’t read. Then there were pictures of her. Her with Peter in the school bleachers, at Coney Island. Then her alone, with her mom and dad, with Liz, her school picture this year.

There was a thread on 4chan where they had scouted out her home address.

Combating sources also pumped up the story about his illness and how it was all a mistake, and there were news segments debating the merits of each that she couldn’t load on her phone while she crouched trembling on a school toilet, her feet drawn up on the seat for fear of being found out when people checked under the stalls.

A squad of the tenth grade staff still found her there, and her Home Economics teacher had circled her arms around her as the rest inquired after Kitty. Mary told them she had no idea where the other girl was, and wanted to speak with her mother.

They told her that her mother was being detained by the NYPD for questioning, and they were on their way over for her as well. Mary could have shrieked and ripped at her scalp until she was bald and bleeding.

Yet she kept her lips tightly wound and nodded so slightly when they offered her coffee while she waited in the safety in the staff lounge, and Mrs. Koertig rubbed her back as she hunched over her knees and tried not to burst open at the seams.

Though she had to constantly stifle her phone, message after message pouring in, Mary had laboriously managed to key in one single, imperative text to Kitty Pryde.

_The NYPD are taking me out of school in ten._

So the uncharacteristic shrieks and gasps of the press when a head of thick brown hair birthed out of a cop’s chest, followed by the face and hands and body of an infuriated teenage mutant, did not surprise Mary in the least. Her head bowed, she allowed herself a small, furtive smile.

“HEY!” Kitty hollered. “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU ALL?! HUH?”

Mary felt the grip on her go slack, and slithered. She bowed low and threaded her way loose, the crowd no longer concerned with her as Kitty bellowed at them all with piping hot vitriol.

“THAT GUY IS NOT SPIDER-MAN! HE’S FUCKING DYING OF CANCER AND YOU’RE RUINING HIS LIFE EVEN MORE? FOR WHAT?! THE REAL SPIDER-MAN IS _GONE!_ HE’S _DEAD!_ ” Mary could hear her wheeze, knew there were real tears streaming down her face from the way her voice scratched and crackled. She ducked under a prone camera man’s arm, and she was free of the mob.

Mary bolted. She wanted to look back, but hesitation would cost them the whole gamble. She heard the fizz of something electrical – right, Kitty ruined electronics when she phased through them, so she must have shorted a camera or a mike – and she could hear the police shouting at her to desist, ordering her to go tangible and Kitty shrieking at them to back the fuck off, the reporters dogging twice as hard with new questions and fervent revelations. Only her principal, nearly drowned out by the mob, was calling her name.

Mary didn’t stop running until she was several blocks away. Her shirt was soaked through with hot sweat, and her legs were burning like wildfire. She doubled over wheezing behind a Starbucks, then let herself fall against the wall for support. With trembling hands, she pulled out her phone once more.

_You are a godsend, Kitty Pryde. Get out and find a safe place._

She thought about arranging a meeting spot, maybe inviting her along for the trek with Logan after all. But then the cops would have means of getting her phone records, wouldn’t they? There was probably some way they could snag a printout of her text history with a proper warrant, and then where would the two of them be?

Though her phone was still flooding, she was able to open up the reply that came shortly after.

_Tell me something I don’t know. Already on it. Turn off your phone, they might find you._

Mary removed the battery on the spot.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When it was dark and the old folks trickled home and the young ones left decked in party glitz, Mary found Logan waiting for her in a parking lot behind a triad of old red brick apartments in dire need of renovations. He was leaning against an inky black motorcycle, which was gorgeous and worn but well cared for. Mary hadn’t known what she expected, but she wasn’t at all surprised.

Logan tipped his head to her, and did not smile. “You sure you oughta be out here still? Seen your face all over today.”

“You’re not weaseling out of this that easy,” Mary bullied. She held aloft a large takeout bag from Swiss Chalet, where she had, fortunately, escaped harassment for the afternoon. “I bring you offerings of peace.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” She pressed it at him. Unlike the money the night before, he accepted it with nothing more than a snort. “It’s the ribs. I figured that was the manliest thing on the menu.”

“That how you always order your food?”

“Well I did debate getting you a gluten free tofu wrap, but then you would probably hop on your motorcycle and drive away from me for good.”

Logan almost laughed. She could sense it. “Pop open the pannier and grab a beer if we’re eating.”

“Oh. Uh.” She ought to have refused, but the request was so plainly made and she was eager not to offend. Or look childish. There were three bottles left inside, and she gave him one while cradling her own nervously to her chest, the condensation slicking her hand. The combination of the motorcycle and beer set off an alarm, but watching Logan pop the top off with a claw and swallow it down like water reminded her of exactly who she was dealing with. He could probably swim in a vat of Sleeman’s and come out clean to a breathalyzer the moment he resurfaced.

She looked down at her own with a queasy turn, and tried to open it. Her palm was bruising around the ridges of the cap and Logan coolly rescued her from further pain. The bottle opened with nothing more than a flick and a hiss under his practiced ministration, and Mary felt her ears go red as he handed it back to her with a knowing smirk.

“I’ve had coolers before,” she said abruptly, and felt twice as stupid for it.

“Sure.” He tipped his bottle to hers in a cheers and took another swig, then unwrapped his takeout box. “Mind telling me how the whole damn world knows about your boyfriend now?”

She filled him in as they ate. Mary had already had her supper while sitting in the restaurant, and all that she had packed in the takeout bag for herself was an extra slice of lemon meringue pie. The beer didn’t pair with it so well, and it was so dark and bitter and made her smack her lips in such strong distaste that Logan snatched it from her after he had polished off his own without so much as a word. Mary didn’t begrudge him for it.

He wasn’t too pleased to hear that Kitty was under fire, nor that her mother and her house were already under watch and Mary had nowhere to go but with him, or else find her hands tied and locked in interrogation with the police.

“Good thing I went looking last night. It’d be fuckin’ impossible to get clues about your boy now.”

“So you did find something?” she pushed breathlessly, edging closer before she caught herself and maintained their distance.

“Not much.” He paused to wipe a smudge of errant sauce from his lip with his thumb, finished with the meal for good. “Might be bullshit, for all I know. But somebody saw the Punisher creeping around that area before S.H.I.E.L.D. showed up.”

“The Punisher?” Mary’s lip curled, remembering what Peter had relayed to her about the night he left looking for Jessica. “You’re not suggesting that he—“

“Not suggesting nothing. Not until we track him down and find out what he knows.” He crumpled the bag and the box alike, and tossed it into an open dumpster two cars away. Mary raised her brows, impressed.

“And how are we going to do that?”

“Got a lead to follow. Someone knows where he’s holing up.” He handed her the two empty beer bottles and told her to replace them in the pannier, and patted the seat behind him. The helmet, which had been dangling off of one handle, was passed off to her. “You ever been on a bike before?”

“No.”

He grinned wide. “Better hold on tight, Red.”

Mary burned bright in her cheeks, but she slid on the helmet and clambered on behind him regardless. He was warm in her arms and his middle was thick, nothing but pure muscle draped in leather, and her heart was pounding in a slow escalation that she begged would stop before he noticed. The bike roared to life, and there was a rumble in his chest that was probably a laugh.

Mary mentally damned him for being a giant tool, and gasped when they shot into motion.

Motorcycles, as it turned out, were amazing. Not webswinging amazing, which put her heart in her throat and made her want to holler like Tarzan (not that she would, as her mouth was usually too close to Peter’s ear so she had to limit her whooping) and shot her weight from her fingertips to her toes and back up to the tip of her skull. But it was a hell of a lot more exciting than a car ride, even with the top off, and Logan was not pulling punches on the speed. They might get stopped by the cops should any notice the blur of their passing.

Good thing then that they didn’t have far to go. Twenty minutes later Logan was hitting the breaks, and they dismounted discreetly on the side of a seedy laundromat with bars in the window, tucked under an equally shabby apartment complex. Hell’s Kitchen, naturally. Threadbare traces of her adrenaline grin remained, but the dark shadows on stained bricks and the jaundice that had struck everything from the dented signs and the litter on the pavement dampened the high. She delicately hung the helmet from the handle again, and looked inquisitively at Logan for further instructions.

“Stay with the bike.”

“Oh come on!” Mary groaned. “Isn’t it worse for me to stand out here alone and totally unsupervised?”

“I won’t be long. You’ll be in ear shot. Guard it and make sure no one touches it. Shit goes missing in this kinda neighborhood and I don’t have the time to be teaching street punks a lesson.”

She squinted at the windows of the laundromat. “Is our guy in there?”

“Stay put.”

“I’ll be extra quiet.”

“No.”

“I bought you ribs!”

“What did I tell you last night?”

She bit her lip and scowled. “Stay put if you tell me to.”

He nodded (snidely, she thought, what with that half-cocked grin on his stupid face) and told her, “Thattagirl,” before disappearing with the curt beep of the door into the laundromat. Mary narrowed her eyes at his retreating back and just barely refrained from kicking his bike over. If you didn’t want to be treated like a child, you shouldn’t act like one, and she was already treading on thin ice with this mission.

She did try to spy on him through the window. But from where they had parked it was some distance, and all she could see was that the Logan shape had approached another man shape and they appeared to be conversing.

This was all decidedly less action packed and productive than she had hoped. Mary crossed her arms and groused for a while. Some part of her wondered if maybe the reason Logan wasn’t letting her come was because he planned to use less than savory methods to get the details from this guy. Which was a fair point, but Mary was fairly sure not everyone had to be bullied into lending a hand. Right? Unless this lead was some kind of criminal. Or maybe he had a good reason to be obstinate.

She ruminated on the pros and cons and only thought herself into circles.

But it wasn’t long before the unnatural desolation of the area was getting to her. An old tramp had wheeled his shopping cart past her, raving wildly about bats for reasons unknown. Most pedestrians came sparsely if at all, and they possessed a unanimous steel about them, looking her up and down with pointed dislike.

A car, subtle silver and just a little too nice looking to belong around here, slowed as it passed the building. Mary had only turned to soothe her nerves, but she thought she saw someone peering at her from the windows as it crawled along the block, and her hairs stood on end.

When she burst into the laundromat both Logan and the other man snapped to face her. Both were fraught with tension and she had caught the man mid-holler, something something and then, “You damn mutie!”, Logan’s fingers twined in his collar and his back pressed close to a heavy duty dryer.

She looked between them with wide eyes. “Sorry,” she said instantly.

“I asked you to do _one_ thing, kid!” Logan snarled.

“You’re with him?” the man, who was potbellied and balding and had a face that looked like a lump of butter freshly rubbed on a hot pan.

“There was a car,” Mary said, pointing her thumb at the window and holding a hand to her chest. “They were slowing down when they passed me and I got a bad feeling.”

“What?” Logan, who was no less agitated but now pushed that hot focus past her, squinting out at the street. He abandoned the man, who huffed and gawped at Mary some more. Logan pressed past Mary, smoothly pushing her behind his back and out of sight from the windows as he examined the street. She blushed a little at the gesture.

Their audience cocked his head at the two of them. “Missy, you know who that is?”

“Yes? Is there a problem?”

“So you’re with the – are you an X-Men too?”

“She ain’t,” Logan had turned back and was ushering her inside, a hand at her shoulder and shooting a long glance back at the windows. “She’s with me. Doing her a favor.”

“A favor?!” He spluttered at the both of them. “What kinda – Now look here, Missy, this man was in here asking about the Punisher! You gotta know who – is this the kind of business a girl your age should get mixed up in?”

“Do you know where he is?” Mary said, stepping just out of Logan’s reach, imploring the man. “I’m sorry – I know this is a really weird request, but we really need to know where he is.”

“What – you – why?” He shook his head, gobsmacked. Logan grunted in disgust behind her.

“You gonna spit out something worth listening to, or do we have spend another ten minutes watching you choke on your tongue?” Mary glared at him in disapproval and opted to reach for the man’s hand, closing in.

“Sir?” He tried to yank back, still spluttering, but she kept her grip firm and gentle and took a soft step forward. “Sir, please. My boyfriend and his Aunt went missing yesterday. They think there was a kidnapping. And we heard the Punisher was in the area before the cops showed up, so if he saw anything, he could help us find them.”

He was growing placid under her grip and he couldn’t seem to look away from her eyes. _Excellent,_ she thought smugly. Turned out a little eyelash batting was more effective than pulverizing your target after all. “Please. I’m sorry about Logan.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he grunted behind her.

“We don’t want to hurt you or anybody else. We just want to find out where they are and who took them. It’s important. So if you know how we can find this Punisher guy, please. Please tell us.”

The man’s mouth gaped open and shut repeatedly and Mary thought that he looked a lot like a puffer fish, with his wide and icy blue eyes and fleshy jowls. He took his hand out of her grasp to wag a finger at them, some of his bluster returning as he said, “Now, now if I tell you this, I need you to understand. This isn’t no fucking joke to me, you hear? I let you know anything it’s because I am deadly serious and you do not breathe a fucking word to another soul, because the guy did me a favor. A big favor.” He turned a hard glare to Mary. Or at least it started as one, but his gaze penetrated through her, to somewhere far beyond where neither one of them could follow.

He lifted his hand to the air, hovering somewhere between his nose and his chin. “I had a kid. A girl, little older than you. She went missing last year, and they…they dragged her out of the bay, and she’d been cut up, cut all over.” The man faltered, teeth gritted too tightly and veins throbbing hard in his temples. “So when Frank Castle gets out and about again – his old man was a neighbor, you know. And when he gets out again, I tell him I’ve got a room I can put him up in. But he has to do me a favor, because the sick sonuvabitch that done my girl up like that was out too. And he made good on that favor. You mighta seen the papers. ”

Mary thought for a moment. There had been a wave of hysteria about the Punisher being loose again, but there were only a few legitimate sightings, and any killings were only suspected and not yet proven. Most recently, however: “…That Sorkin guy?”

“That’s right,” he huffed. “So you understand. I tell you this now and it ain’t no joke. If the cops come for him I’ll know it was you two assholes and I’ll make sure you never forget what you done.”

“All due respect, we just told you we lost a kid of our own.” Logan barely moved, just a tilt of his head, yet with something so small he still had the power to snap their attention solely onto him, better than if he had pulled a gun or popped a claw. “And the longer we stand here the better chance he’s gonna have of ending up the same as your daughter.”

The man bristled and twisted his lips, but he did not argue. “Fair ‘nough. I suppose. He’s out now. I ain’t sure I can call him up, but I could…”

Logan had suddenly turned to the windows. His hand was clapped on Mary’s shoulder again, heavy as solid iron. “What is it?” she asked, stunned.

“There a back door?” Logan was pushing her towards the other man.

“Uh, yeah, just come – what’s going on?”

“Take her. Get her out of sight.”

“What?” Mary said thinly. “Logan, what are you—“

She was all but thrown into the stranger’s arms now, and as her back knocked into his chest she could see over Logan’s shoulders, a huddle of silhouettes approaching the door. Logan was snarling.

“Now would be a good time!”

Mary didn’t need to be told twice, already ducking low behind the washers and speeding along in a crouch to the first door she could see, but the man was still standing, protesting and uncomprehending.

“Now, now wait a minute, wait a goddamn minute here, what kind of bullshit are you trying to pull—“

The door chimed and opened. Four men, from the sound of it, though the footsteps were muddled together. Mary snapped back behind the last washer in the row instead of dashing to the door and willed herself to erase all evidence of her own existence. She hadn’t moved fast enough, and now her heart was wrestling its way into her throat.

“Oh, so sorry to interrupt, gentleman.” The voice was lazy, oil slick. Mary’s flesh crawled – she had thought maybe it was the police coming for her, but current surveys said no self respecting officer would say something so smug. With her photo paired with Peter’s all over the globe, she should have guessed there would be more than one interested party snooping around for her. She wordlessly thanked god that her Mom was already with the NYPD. Possibly S.H.I.E.L.D. by now, even.

“We were hoping to find a little lady in here. Pretty little thing about yea high, fifteen years old. Red head. You wouldn’t have seen one of those, no?”

“Eh?” said their host dumbly.

Logan was calm, but predatory. Even without looking she could sense the cold glint in his eye as he surveyed the bunch. “You’re in the wrong place to be looking for a date, bub.”

“Oh, that so?” Mary heard the man cluck his tongue before his boots clicked closer, meandering without rush or care around the place. “Funny. That your bike out front?”

“Might be.”

“It’s a nice bike.”

Logan snorted. “This going somewhere?”

Another man spoke now. His was a deeper tone, giant. Slow. “Irvin. You know who that is?”

“Got an inkling.”

And yet another. “What? Who is he?”

Another. “ _Shit._ You’re shitting me.”

“What? Who is he?”

“Who is – who the hell are you?!” yelled their host. Mary’s eyes blew wide in incredulity (how thick did you have to be?) and for the second time today she was stuck trying to submit telepathic orders to somebody, wishing and praying and silently urging him to shut the hell up and just play innocent. “Look here, I’m going to call the cops on you all if you don’t clear out—“

“Relax! Relax. Ain’t no trouble here. We just wanted to check if you saw the little miss, that’s all. But you clearly haven’t, so.”

And mercifully, those footsteps were retreating. Mary ceased breathing, unwilling to move until she had heard the beep from the door.

“Keep an eye out, all right? She’s lost and we’re hoping to get her back home.”

There was the ding. Mary waited, turning her head to watch the two men for tells. Logan and the other man were equally as stiff as they watched the windows with hard glares.

At last, Logan grumbled. “Get her out the back door. I’ll swing around and pick her up.”

This time the man did not hesitate. He rushed her through the back of the laundromat, through the hall of the apartment, muttering and gawping and tugging her by the arm. “I’ll get Frank on the phone. I’ll get him.” He was fishing out a flip phone from his pocket and laboriously texting as they walked. “I don’t know what kind of mess you and your boyfriend and that mutie are in, but it ain’t right, and you oughta think twice about where this is heading, young lady.”

“Uh, okay,” Mary agreed incredulously. He seemed to have finished his message just as they reached the rear exit. He gave her a little shake as he pushed at the door.

“I mean it. You seem like a good girl, and I’d hate to—“

The bang was what shook her first. The sound stopped her heart entirely and she found herself knocking into the doorframe in alarm, her ears squealing at a pitch she was certain guaranteed lasting damage. Her eyes would not close. Red globs and drops and little patches of hair flew out the back of the man’s head, and the rest of him just crumpled downwards, nearly dragging her along to the floor with the lingering grip on her arm. But even that peeled away. The fingers trailed down to her elbow then lost contact completely. He plummeted and hit the ancient carpet, bouncing once before resting in a graceless heap.

A man in a suit, broad shouldered and hair buzzed to the quick, snatched her by the arm and bodily hauled her out of the building. Mary stumbled. She shrieked. She could see a glint from his other side – the gun, and she could smell the tang of the shot, and the blood as well now, and she couldn’t stop screaming, couldn’t stop scrambling on her feet. She slapped and punched and wrenched her arm free once, only to get brutally pulled back by the hair so that a meaty arm could lock around her throat. The gun barrel hovered close to her temple. The heat wafted off the metal onto her skin. She nearly wilted on the spot.

With an effortless heave, he swung her at the car behind them. The same silver one from before that had slowed down to watch her. The door was open and another set of hands yanked her inside, the thug climbing in after her and pressing down her legs from the kicks she was loosing at his face.

They shut the door and drove. Mary was still screaming. A sweaty palm clamped down over her mouth and she struggled upright to fight it. From the window she caught a glimpse of the corner, and Logan was running out to the edge of it (running?), claws out, red faced and furious as the car whizzed past and left him in the dust.

Her mind went utterly blank, and she quieted at last. The world was spinning around her, and voices battered at her head as numbness prickled at her every inch.

“Jesus Christ, that was close!”

“Good thing I slashed his tires, huh?”

“That was the fucking Wolverine. _The_ fucking _Wolverine!_ Shit, can you imagine the cred if we’da popped that guy?”

“We couldn’t pop that guy.”

“We coulda!”

“The motherfucker eats bullets for breakfast, Danny, how the hell were you planning to do it?”

“Hey, show him a picture of your mother. That might do it.”

“You shut your fucking hole, Randall! I swear to god!”

“I still can’t believe it was the goddamn Wolverine. Fuck! No one’s gonna believe us.”

“Guys, we got a lady in the car. Tone it down a notch, will ya?” The one with the hand on her mouth, pinning her head to his shoulder, spoke much more coolly than the other three. He patted her cheek. Mary rolled her eyes up to look at him. He was so bland looking, so neighborly that she almost couldn’t reconcile that sleazy nasal drip as coming from his mouth. He looked like a cookie cutter mannequin, something out of a painted print ad from the fifties.

Then he smiled and it was like the broad blade of a hunting knife. “Hey there, Cherry Pop. How ya doing?”

Mary didn’t answer. She was barely breathing. The big one beside her tugged her upright and pushed her legs off of his. All she did was squeak, high and weak in the back of her throat. The driver adjusted the rear view mirror and whistled. The one in the passenger seat laughed and leaned back to appraise her as well.

“Well shit. Gotta get me a super suit.”

“She’s fifteen, Danny. Ya sick fuck.”

“Ain’t no fifteen year old girls looked like that when I was in school, I’m telling you.” He turned back to the front, chuckling and shaking his head. “Telling you, man.”

“Don’t mind those assholes, honey. We don’t want nothing more from you than a little slice of your time.” The oily voiced man slid his arm around her. Mary crouched away, head going towards her knees and her hands coming up to protect her face.

“No,” she said thinly.

“Aw, don’t be like that. We just have a few questions. Our boss is real keen on hearing from you. You know who Wilson Fisk is, Cherry Pop?”

The Kingpin. He’d been ousted from New York not long ago by Peter and Daredevil and this little squad of street level vigilantes she could name if she wasn’t on the verge of vomiting, her mind looping the soar of chunks from the back of that man’s head and his jaw dropping loose as he fell. Mary squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to stop crying. She didn’t know when she had started. _Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in…_

“See, he had a few run ins with this clown around town by the name of Spider-Man. And today, there’s you and your boyfriend, all over the news, and everyone’s in a tizzy because a lot of people think that your boyfriend was Spider-Man this whole time. Now I know you’ve been telling everyone he’s sick, he’s dying, all that jazz, and you got that little X-girl screaming and shooing the smoke in the other direction too.

“But our Mr. Fisk’s _seen_ Spidey’s face. He pulled that mask off himself more than once. And he swears up and down that it’s little Peter Parker under there. Even though half of New York is sobbing about Spidey dying the other day. But they didn’t get no ID from the body, did they? And they say it’s because his face was all torn up – you smelling the bullshit yet? In fact, no one’s even _seen_ a body. So now he’s thinking maybe Spidey isn’t dead. Maybe it’s all just some smoke and mirrors you’re putting on so baby Peter can slip out of the tights for good. Why? I don’t know.” He wrenched her hair, forcing her to face him straight on. Mary kept her lips shut and breathed through widely flared nostrils and ignored the sharp pain in her scalp. “Care to shed a little light on the subject?”

“I don’t know anything…” Words had to be pushed out, still digging their heels in from the shakes and the intermittent loss of thought that was striking her numb and useless. Yet Mary made herself speak. These were her last resort, her words. Clever things she might say to get out of this alive. She hadn’t thought of anything brilliant yet but if she could get a hold of something, anything, just stabilize herself for two seconds she might have a chance.

“Keep in mind who we just caught you rubbing elbows with, little girl,” he said, his deathly smile growing wider and brighter. “Don’t tell me Wolverine let you ride side saddle on his bike out of the goodness of his heart.”

Someone snorted in the front of the car. Danny shot a quick look back at her again, smirking broadly.

“I…don’t know,” Mary repeated, growing stronger. “I honestly don’t know anything. He’s gone.”

The truth. She had nothing but that, she decided, because they knew who she was and so they knew everything. She could edit it to suit her needs.

He slapped lightly at her cheek, as if she were a dog. “Come on now sweetie, you can give us more than that. Where is he?”

Her wrist was twinging and she had to hold onto it tight so they wouldn’t notice the rabid twitch in her hand that followed, fingers splayed straight. Focus again. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Mary swallowed down the sobbing and the bile that was still lurking at the back of her throat. “No, he’s _gone._ He’s missing and he was hurt when he disappeared. That’s why they called him dead. That’s why I was with Wolverine. We’re looking. Please, just…let me go, you’re not getting anything by keeping me here. I don’t know where he is.”

“Well.” The man – they had called him Irvin in the laundromat, now that she could think well enough to remember – clucked his tongue at her. “Ain’t that just so damn convenient? Unfortunately, sweetheart, that means you’re gonna have to stick with us until he does crawl out of the woodwork.”

“ _RANDALL!_ ” Danny shouted suddenly. Randall was the driver, clearly, because he was suddenly hitting the breaks so that they screeched, trying to heave the car into a right angle turn. Mary heard two bangs, twin lights sparking in the dark outside.

The right side of the car buckled and they spun, metal grinding on pavement. Irvin was thrown back into the door and knocked his head hard. Mary fell into his lap and the big man on her other side nearly crushed her as he toppled too. The two in the front were swearing, and the car was still spinning. Another bang, the windshield shattered, and Randall jolted and shrieked in his seat. His foot was off the gas and the front of the car slammed into a street lamp, crumpling around the pole.

The big guy was getting up. Irvin groaned underneath her. Randall was still hollering, crouching over to hold his belly and whimpering like some animal, and Danny was trying to get his door open. He and the big one were drawing out pistols.

More shots rammed through the car, this time downing Danny via the passenger side, and then the following round put Randall out of his misery. Mary scrambled, pushing herself down to the floor where the bullets couldn’t get her, wheezing in terror. The big guy tried to join her and she kicked him in the stomach, pushing him up for no more than a second.

And a second was all it took. The window behind him crashed open too, except it wasn’t bullets this time. He roared as three long, brilliantly sharp knives raked his back. There was the agonizing screech of metal, another set of knives clawing through the door’s hinges so that it fell out to the pavement. The big guy, still alive and groping for the gun he’d dropped in shock, was seized and thrown out of the car like a sack of flour.

Standing in his wake was Wolverine.

“LOGAN!” she hollered. Her hands shot out to him. The claws were gone with hasty _shink_ and he was hauling her up and out, like a child, and Mary responded on instinct. Her legs tied around his middle and she hugged around his neck, hiding her face there too. He held onto her with one arm around her middle and abandoned the car at a full throttle sprint.

Behind them she could hear Irvin coming to and the big man spewing senseless profanities.

More gunshots. Dying screams.

Logan didn’t stop running until they were around a corner, hidden in an alley behind a fetid dumpster. He bent to let her down gently, but didn’t remove his arms. Mary still clung to his neck too and sucked in air with life or death desperation, her eyes shut and buried in his collar. She flinched when she heard something explode and the crackle of fire follow. The smoke didn’t find them, but the scent of it did, along with everything burning under its influence. Metallic tangs, plastics, flesh, gasoline.

“You all right, Red?” Logan rubbed at her hair. Mary sniffled and gathered herself piece by piece.

“Yeah…”

“You’re safe now. I gotcha.”

She nodded into his collar.

A slow and heavy gait, soft on the pavement but still audible to them both through the roar of the fire, approached from around the corner. Mary shifted, letting her arms drift away from Logan’s neck. He kept a loose grip at her waist as they both watched the Punisher stroll up to them, stern faced and darkened by the shadows.

“She all right?” he said. He was holstering a massive handheld gun. It looked like he had several more weapons strapped to his person. Rifle at his back, smaller calibers around his waist. The glow of the skull on his chest penetrated the dim alley like a beacon.

“Frank Castle?” Mary called.

He stopped short, and nodded to her. “And you’re the Spider-kid’s girl.”

He’d seen the news. She nodded to him back, stepping just a bit more out of Logan’s grasp. A strange calm had overtaken her in spite of the dizziness whirling her mind around and the nausea twisting her guts. “…Thanks…thank you.”

“We oughta get out of here,” Logan rumbled. Already there were police sirens running, distant and foreboding. “You didn’t set my car on fire too, did you?”

“Ain’t your car, but no.”

“How the fuck else was I going to tail ‘em?”

“Mr. Castle?” Mary drew out of Logan’s grip, pressing forward. “We have to ask you something.”

“I know.” He seemed oddly morose. For a fleeting moment Mary thought it was regret over the blood and fire and the four now dead mafia goons, but that was silly. He was the Punisher. He punished. That was his exact modus operandi. “We need to cut loose. Got something to show you both.”

She wanted to smile. She choked on the gesture instead, and Logan had to hold her up all the way to the car he’d stolen. He sheltered her eyes as they passed the burning wreckage on their way out, but her mind was already elsewhere, stuck on the sight of a cold corpse lying prone and bloody on cheap beige carpet, one foot sticking out the exit and blocking the door.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They had brought in his Aunt May whenever meal time rolled around. Seemingly they had taken note that she was the only person who could face him and not get blasted full of gross hormonal mutant crap, and Peter was all the more grateful for it. Each time she came, he felt just a little better. A little peppier, thinking more clearly, nausea dying down and less time spent ruminating on Sabretooth and Venom and everyone else who had put their hands on him.

He had replaced the bedding and sat patiently between visits. They’d given his Aunt books to pass off to him, and he would open them and peruse the author’s prefaces as she pressed medicinal shots into his arm.

“Is that the anti-Oz one?”

“No, sweetie, not yet. They’ve got a lot of work to do before that. This is just to get you feeling better. How’s your arm?”

He had patted his cast and told her he couldn’t feel the break anymore, and she had pulled out thick scissors and cut it all away. She helped him wash up the skin in the bathroom, the smell of sweat from the sheltered skin replaced with cool vanilla from the soap. It was really a lot more effective than whatever concoction they were using at S.H.I.E.L.D., and Peter wondered if maybe there wasn’t some mutant around that secreted something with healing properties, or had healing properties that could be transferred via blood transfusions or chemical work. He gnattered away at his Aunt with these theories, and she would laugh and pat his cheek.

“Don’t think too hard, kiddo. We’re just getting through this one step at a time.”

He slept much better that night. Better than he had in ages.

The next morning she was back with a glorious breakfast tray. They were feeding him like it was a four star resort, it seemed. Crispy bacon and pancakes and eggs and fresh fruit. She popped a few of his grapes into her mouth and assured him that she was eating just as well as he was.

Though he ate his fill no one had come yet to collect his Aunt. They left her with him for longer and longer periods of time. All they did now was sit together, his Aunt leafing through a crime novel from his growing assortment of literature and Peter leaned his head against her, content, eyes closed.

Peaceful.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so…it was just strange, that he’d found a soothing middle ground in the midst of all that had happened to him, inside a cell in Magneto’s fortress of human-hating doom. He snuggled his nose closer into his Aunt’s shoulder, still drowsy even now that he’d eaten.

So he must have drifted off for a bit. Not long, but long enough that the cool, serene blank of sleep took a turn. Sights and faux sounds, snippets of dreams pawed at him. He grimaced and huddled closer, his knees drawing up.

That was when he felt hot breath at his neck.

“Little peach. Little sweetie pie.”

Jostled back and forth, lips over his and a hot tongue pushing down as someone fumbled with his belt from behind, squeezed his ass, pressed his hand in the groove between his legs and rubbed at the end of his dick through his pants.

That tongue becoming huge. Elongated. Inching down his throat like some kind of worm and vicious pointed teeth nicking at his lips and he just kept hearing the most sordid whispers in his ear, the voice indistinguishable but the words biting at him. Calling him pretty, promising filthy things, talking about ripping him in two and how cute he looked when he cried.

He woke with a gasp when his Aunt’s hand pinched sharply at his shoulder. Her grip had gone wickedly tight. Peter had to blink hard to wipe the dream away, put himself in the cell. Cold sweat dripped down from his hairline and he reached for his Aunt’s hand while staring straight ahead at the glass.

“Sorry,” he said, counting to five in his head and willing his pulse to stop its mad dash. “Sorry, I was just dreaming.”

He heard his Aunt sniffle and sob. He rubbed her fingers.

Then he frowned. He passed his thumb over her ring finger again, and found it curiously absent of an actual ring. She might have started dating again, but she still wore her wedding ring around the clock. And it was smooth, soft, but more taut than usual. No wrinkles.

“Oh, you poor kid. Jesus, you poor sweet thing.”

Not his Aunt’s voice.

Peter’s eyes were wide with horror as the woman holding him moved to hug him proper. Beautiful, in her twenties or thirties, with thick silvery hair that was tossed over her back like velvet drapes. She was sobbing as she pressed her forehead to his.

“It’s okay, all right? I’m here for you.”

He watched her cry. He watched her blue eyes glisten and the lashes stick together as the tears rolled out and dragged threads of her dark make-up with it.

She flew into the wall with an echoing crack and a scream of surprise.

“Who…” Peter rose, standing, stepping off the bed with his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched so tightly the veins were popping out, “the _FUCK_ are you?!”

She hyperventilated. She was still crying, sitting on the ground with her legs splayed out like a fallen deer. She had to take several deep breaths before she whimpered to him, “Lorelai…”

He didn’t recognize the name. But he found he did not care at all. “WHERE IS MY AUNT?!”

Her hand shook as she raised it to her mouth. “I’m…I’m so sorry. They asked me…Sabretooth…I’m _sorry…_ ”

The world slowed to a crawl to let a knife, unseen, intangible, yet sharp enough to split atoms, sink straight through his chest and cleave his heart in two. Blood swished and pounded in his ears. Peter couldn’t hear a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since she's extremely obscure and only ever cameos at best, here's [Lorelai's incredibly sparse wiki page](http://marvel.wikia.com/Lani_Ubanu_%28Earth-1610%29) if you want a visual. :) Sorry Pete...


	15. Auntie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter attempts an escape, but success comes at a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic violence and dub-con, as well as some gorey imagery. 
> 
> This one took forever to write, and I apologize for the wait. It's largely in part because it's a really hefty chapter (even though it's short), and writing it took a wallop out of me. I had to retool it several times, as my original plan was to make it far worse than it already is, but I couldn't rightly in the end. Not without ruining the rest of the fic.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's sticking with me, or even dipped in briefly and enjoyed what they saw at the time. You're all amazing and I'm so grateful to have you here.

“They asked me to. To make you think – and to pretend I was her,” Lorelai said. Her face twitched twice, like a glitching screen, and when she stopped talking she seemed starstruck to be looking at Peter all over again. “You poor thing.”

“Fucking _don’t!_ ” Peter snapped down over her, fingers gutting her shoulders like claws as he shook her loose of the hold his powers had on her. “To make me think what? What did you do to me?!”

“That’s my power,” she whimpered. “I can hypnotize men. I’ve been making you want to be here, and making you think I was your Aunt. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t hurt me, _I’m sorry!_ ”

The bang of the hall door didn’t startle Peter. He was shocked that it had taken them this long to send someone to corral him. “DOWN, PARKER!”

The clop of heels in a sprint. Mystique. Peter’s eyes fell on the cell lock and before the idea fully settled in his mind, he was yanking Lorelai up by the forearm and jamming her hand against the sensory pad. It lit up and dinged. She wailed as the door sprung open, and Peter dragged her out with him.

Mystique shot ruthlessly at them as Peter rocketed free, nearly nicking Lorelai by her flying feet. Peter clutched her in front of him and snapped to the opposite wall. Human shields had never been his style but that was the same white blaster that she had used to gun him down in New York. If the woman got hit, she’d only be stunned.

She deserved worse, he thought with a hateful surge, for pulling that stunt, for oozing in like a slime and coating everything sugary and sweet and convincing him that hey, maybe being trapped amongst mutant terrorists wasn’t such a bad thing. For making him think that she was his _Aunt_. 

He was so fricking stupid. He had actually been buying into it.

“Put her down, kid,” Mystique threatened. She squared the gun barrel between his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. You’ve got nowhere to go.”

“What did you do with my Aunt,” Peter demanded hoarsely. Lorelai fretted and whined in his grip, flinching, reaching up to pet his arm where it was clasped around his middle. Was she still under his influence? Even now? “What did you do to her? What did you do that made you try to trick me?! TWICE!” 

“You’re going to need to simmer down, buckaroo, and let go of—“

He let her get no further, almost frothing at the mouth when he screamed, “WHERE IS MY AUNT?! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY AUNT MAY, YOU FREAKING—“

“SHE’S DEAD!” 

Mystique’s jaw dropped in awe. Peter stopped. Screaming, breathing, moving. He was little more than ice, cold and rigid. 

Lorelai shivered in his grip and rubbed his arm with fervent desperation, weeping openly as she carried on. “She’s dead, I’m sorry, she’s dead. She was never here. She had a heart attack before they could catch her. Sabretooth left her there, he left her in the street…”

“ _Lorelai!_ ” Mystique spat, mortified. “What part of keep him _placated_ did you fucking miss?!”

“I don’t know! I c-can’t help it Mystique, I can’t shut up – he’s doing something to me, I can’t think – I can’t—“

And then she wasn’t in his arms anymore. Peter must have lost himself, stopped his mind for two seconds, because now he was looking down at the graceless heap of women on the floor and the gun lost to the side, which had seemingly blasted the cell window and left the glass cracked around a sharp splatter of a burn mark. Mystique groaned under Lorelai’s weight as the other woman howled and drew off, hunching over to cradle her bruised elbow. He’d thrown her. He must have.

He was weightless as he moved and yet all too slow, pushing through murky water, or chained at the heels. Peter stooped. The gun was hot to the touch, even around the handle. A hand was slapping on the floor. Mystique was pulling herself away. Lorelai was crumpled and useless, muttering sorry over and over and flinching incessantly. 

The hall just seemed so dim and heavy. He was shocked to find he was moving at all, much less fast enough to stomp his foot on Mystique’s chest, or level the gun at her as she tried to swing her legs around to sweep out his. She breathed thinly, lips tight, scooting away by inches on her back with a grunt. Peter saw a wet mark dab into being onto her shirt. Then another. He looked back up to meet her eyes and only then did he feel the watery trails being drawn down his cheeks and folding under his chin. With the change in angle some dropped off while others followed the cords of his neck and died when they soaked into his collar. 

Mystique watched him with cool apprehension. Assessing. Yellow eyes so cold and serpent-like and he wanted nothing more than to never see them again.

Though he let his mouth part and took in air, not a sound came out of him. Peter wasn’t sure what to say. Some black, nameless thing had gone and swallowed up his insides and sucked the words clean out of his mind.

He simply pulled the trigger. Mystique’s eyes rolled back and disappeared under the lids with a meager flutter. She was still breathing, but out cold. Lorelai shrieked behind him and he turned the barrel on her next, his teeth gritted as the gun jolted in his hand with the force of the shot. Down she went, silver hair flying and draping in ethereal ribbons over her shoulder.

Peter’s head was throbbing. He choked on nothing but the knots squeezing his trachea, his chest. There was a limp wobble to his steps as he passed over Mystique, almost tripping on her arm. His footfalls should have been silent, his feet clad in nothing more than thin utilitarian socks and padding delicately on the metal floor. They echoed to his ears even so, pounding like drums, like pipes swung into tin walls.

There were more mutants assembled outside the hall, waiting to pounce the moment the door creaked open. His spider senses warned him of that long before the first blaster shot whizzed past his ear, sending Peter ducking and dodging on rote operation. His muscles did the thinking. He took a couple shots as well but his aim was crap, so he lobbed the gun at one's head before leaping in to clock another, purple and tender skinned like a cabbage, in the mouth. He took them each out without note for their features or demands or pleas; without comment, his mouth sealed shut when it wasn't splayed open to gasp for air or grunt with the effort of a hit, giving or receiving. 

He shambled with ragged breaths out of that hall into another. One horned man saw him, two cruel, pointed hooks like a bull’s sprouting out of his temples. He did a double take, then rushed at him head bowed and those points trained on Peter’s gut. When he was a hair's breadth from success Peter leaped upwards and stuck to the roof. The man yelped but hit the wall behind Peter with a mighty crunch, then hollered obscenities as he realized he was hopelessly stuck. His horns had punctured the wall nearly to the crown of his head.

Peter ignored him, dropping down and moving on.

There was a window into a technological pit, where a few bespectacled mutants tinkered away at devices and paid no mind to the onlooker in the window above. Then there was a series of labeled rooms, all useless halls and janitorial excess. A map, posted helpfully around the next corner he turned, told him everything. Even mutants needed fire escapes, apparently.

Only the building itself was detailed there, with no hint as to global location. An elaborate fortress hidden in a wilderness unknown, fit to house the future mutant society that Magneto would hope to fill those halls. Peter couldn't suss out an exit from where he was at. The map was a massive, sprawling mess he did not have the time to interpret. The place was humongous. But there was a room, titled "Comm. Center", right on this floor. Not too far.

He jetted off at lightning speed.

They would have cameras. They would know he was out, there had to be reinforcements, more people on their way to take him down, take him out. Mystique would wake up sometime. Sabretooth could sniff him out.

He was so lightheaded he nearly lost his footing simply by running, having to push his hand against the wall and let it trail alongside him like a trolley wire. His chest kept finding new ways to tighten and collapse into itself. Sabretooth. Aunt May, in the alley, down on the ground.

Peter found the communication center.

He kicked the door open and a twiggy little man turned to him, his eyes fish like and broadly set on either side of his head.

"Hey!" He shouted peevishly. "Who do you think you are?!"

He weighed less than a basketball. Or so it seemed when Peter chucked him screaming out the door and several feet down the hall. He knocked his head on the floor and grumbled in a daze to himself.

Peter shut the doors behind him and thrust a hefty filing cabinet against it. Five minutes. Give him five minutes in here to try his best, and then he’d be back out looking for an exit.

He probably didn't have five minutes.

Rigid fingers rapped at the controls. He wouldn't have to bother wrangling with passwords: the Fish Man hadn't had the luxury of logging out. At least here was something Peter was good at. Machines. Computers. Things to tinker with and tap and compute, calming and callous, no emotive effort required. There now, he was on some promising looking screen, there was a space there where it seemed he could enter a number. Place a call. His nose cinched as he struggled to remember the one he needed – one of the direct lines Nick Fury had given him, part of the contingency plan he'd outlined when he had first sent Peter home, just before he found Jessica in his house and chased after her and pushed into motion every single shitty, godforsaken wretched thing that happened after. 

If he hadn't left, nothing would have happened. Not Frank or Tony, he wouldn't have met Sabretooth and sent the mutants on a manhunt, he wouldn't be trapped here, his Aunt May wouldn't be dead.

Peter swallowed up a sob as he dialed. He prayed it was the right number. He needed it. He needed this one thing, just one fucking thing to go right.

It barely even rang. A monitor, previously black, sparked to life, and Nick Fury's drawn and weathered face was looking down on him. His bloodshot eye went wide.

"Parker?"

Peter burst out laughing. It was closer to a breathless string of wheezes, tears still leaking out of him, but Peter was laughing. He reached forward and stuck his hands to both sides of the monitor, as if cupping Nick's face by the cheeks.

"It's you," Peter croaked.

"Kid! Where are you?" Nick was going pale, the vein at his forehead suddenly throbbing. He heard alarmed voices in the background. Captain America's head tilted into view over Nick's shoulder, and then Sue Storm's. Peter sobbed openly. "Kid -- Peter, are you okay? Talk to me."

Deep breaths. Deep breathing, he had to be quick. "It's the Brotherhood. I don't know where I am, there’s this fortress thing. Magneto's not in prison, he's here. He’s escaped and he’s here." Peter's eyes widened. "I'm a mutant. It's a mutation."

The line went silent. Captain America’s jaw dropped in open offense.

Nick’s teeth were bared. “Son of a—“ and then he turned, “DANVERS. Get someone down to Magneto’s block now, and find out who the fuck’s been squatting in the cell this whole time. Make sure they have guns. And get someone tracing this call!”

“We’re already tracing it!” a sharp voice retorted from somewhere off screen. A woman, vaguely familiar sounding. 

Sue Storm pushed closer. "Are you okay? Peter? Did they hurt you?"

He stared into her eyes. The blue seared at him through the strained, synthetic colors of the monitor. Peter spoke from the lowest pit of his gut. "My Aunt is dead."

Sue went quiet. Her hand was at her mouth and she was blinking wide at him, horrified.

Nick Fury took over. Captain America had disappeared to argue with someone in the background – the Danvers woman. He thought he could hear Janet Van Dyne too. “Kid you need to get out of there. Find a safe place. They can probably see the transmission somewhere.”

“There’s nowhere,” Peter spluttered. All his words had turned ragged and tumbled recklessly from his mouth. “They left Aunt May to die in the street and I don’t know where I am.”

“WE GOT IT!” shouted Danvers from the back. There was a flurry of activity in the back now, shouts and orders and rushing footsteps and clatters. 

“We’re coming kid,” Nick said. Not with his traditional bite, not with gnashing teeth or simmering rage, but with the same firm, steady gentility Uncle Ben always saved for him when he’d caught Peter crying over framed photos of his Mom and Dad. “We’re coming for you.”

Peter shook his head and swallowed down an impossible lump, heart beating hard. “I’m not gonna be here.”

“Don’t. We’re coming. Get out of—“

His spider senses roared and the screen folded in on itself, scrapping his fingers as the two sides slammed together like the covers on a hardcover book. The controls beneath crumpled into useless wads of metal and wires and fractured plastic. A cutting, weighted scrape made Peter turn to find the metal filing cabinet fleeing the doors as they swung open. Standing regal in the wake was that very figure, clad in kingly reds and purples, that Peter had dreaded seeing from the moment he had made his escape.

“You,” Magneto drawled, one brow raised in a look of faint disappointment, “are far more trouble than I gave you credit for.”

His spider senses beat at him badly enough to bruise. Peter didn’t intend to say anything, he couldn’t dare. It would be suicide. 

“You killed my Aunt.”

But there was no reason to be afraid anymore. Why should he be scared of what was going to happen? It was only a matter of delays by seconds, by minutes, and even now when he was hollowed out and tear-streaked and dressed in the stupid shitty clothes they had given him, Peter refused to let it end without saying a word. 

Magneto seemed to expect nothing less. He corrected him smoothly, stepping into the room with a broad wave of his hand. The doors drifted shut behind him like an old horror film cliché, and latched with nothing more than a scarcely audible click. “We never laid a hand on her. She was weak. It’s a human condition. We played no part, and you’re mistaken if you’re looking to blame any one of us.”

“She wouldn’t have had a heart attack if you didn’t trigger it!” Peter shot back. “It wouldn’t have happened if you’d left us the hell alone!”

“We couldn’t do that.” Magneto moved in closer. Peter grasped the chair adjacent without a thought and hurled it at his head. A stupid move. It only paused midair before hurtling back his way, and he had to leap aside to miss it. Peter landed on the wall in a crouch, legs quivering, ready to jump again in an instant.

The chance was lost to him already. Two strips of lean metal had been peeled away from the control panel while he had been dodging the chair and flew at him, snatching his wrists and binding them together against his back. Peter clattered to the floor and shuddered, snapped his teeth together with a violent curl to his lip, baring them like a savage beast. He rolled, trying to get his knees under him. None of his muscles would obey him rightly, and his spider sense was hounding him so ferociously he half expected to find Venom lurking in the door.

Yet he couldn’t stop the bile from spilling from his mouth, his words molten hot on his tongue. “I would have _never_ joined you. You and everyone here are stinking pieces of shit, and it’s not because you’re mutants.” He managed to find his knees and rose on them, kneeling but proud. His eyes seared as if they were burned by torches, he was holding them so wide, tears still streaming out of the sides. “It’s because you are _monsters._ You are psychotic, self-righteous, racist, _murdering_ assholes. Just like every psychotic, delusional murdering human that’s ever pulled the exact same shit on you. ”

There was a pause. Short and clipped. It seemed his vitriol was wasted, however, because all Magneto did was huff and gave him a pitying stare that seemed to come from fifty feet away rather than five. “Children. You’re always so short-sighted.”

Another strip of metal, below the control table this time, screeched as it stripped away and lassoed Peter around his calves. He toppled off of his knees and was dragged to Magneto’s feet by a ghostly tug. An anguished wail wrestled out of him. His spider sense was going to kill him before Magneto did. His nose was burning against the frigid metal floor and the rest of him was trying to curl inwards, protect his middle, cuddle his body as close as he could before he went.

“And I am truly sorry, Peter, but you did bring this on yourself. That was Nick Fury you had on the line, was it not?” 

He heard Magneto cluck his tongue. The sole of his boot settled over his ear and ground down, and Peter hollered into the floor, into the puddle of tears he was growing beneath the compressed flesh of his cheeks. “SHE WAS MY MOTHER! SHE WAS MY _MOM,_ YOU BASTARD!”

“She was human. All humans are going to meet the same fate, sooner than you may think. There is little use mourning what nature intends to erase.” The boot pressed harder and Peter clenched his eyes shut. Pull as he might, he couldn’t wrench his hands free. “I had intended to keep you alive, I’ll have you know. I was not bluffing about wanting to fix you, should you have come around to reason on your own time. We only asked Lorelai to pose as your Aunt as a temporary measure. To prevent you from doing something rash. You had such potential.”

The boot rose. His spider senses spiked impossibly higher. With the weight gone Peter’s eyes blew open and the sight of the floor, the legs of chairs and the console and cabinet and the stabilizing frames lining the bottom of the wall all assaulted him with their musty, desolate grays, and Peter thought there could be no more miserable last view than this. His pulse overthrew all his senses. “But you chose death, Peter Parker.”

“ _NO!_ ”

The force of his scream rattled his bones as it ripped through him. Shook something loose.

He didn’t want to die.

Not even now. Peter did not want to die.

He couldn’t move his arms or his legs. He couldn’t leap up or expect any cavalry in the next three seconds. All he had left was that niggling notion, that subtle thing. That prickling sensation that was turning the cold of the metal floor into a toasty, comforting heat. 

So for the first time since he had kissed Johnny, since he had let Logan grab him by the belt and swallow him whole, Peter simply shut his eyes and sunk into it.

He could have sworn he heard the ticking of a second hand on a clock somewhere. Counting down his last gamble. He gasped when instead of crashing down to crumple his skull, the toe of Magneto’s boot lightly wedged under his forehead. Tilting him upwards. Peter blinked blearily at the giant standing high over him, wincing at the sharp stab of the lights directly overhead. 

Magneto looked as impassive as ever, but the grandiosity was gone from his voice when he spoke. It was human. Soft. “You are a sad wretch, aren’t you?”

Peter swallowed, tongue arid and stuck to the roof of his mouth, and curled his knees tighter into his belly. Unfurling through him with sprawling fluidity, the heat came. It was so much simpler now. He didn’t tense. He didn’t hesitate. He let it swirl up and cloud his mind, turn his vision lazy, and watched without repulsion as the same change was mirrored in the man above him. 

The metal at his calves split to lay flat on the floor. Peter didn’t need an order. He rolled onto his knees, his gaze never breaking with the man’s above. He let himself rise. His arms were still bound behind his back. It was probably a lewd picture already, him kneeling with his wrists shackled, his face inches from the older man’s hips. Much older.

“But you are quite lovely.” He appeared to contemplate this quite deeply as he threaded a hand through Peter’s hair. Brushed the remains of a tear away with the soft pad of his thumb, the fabric of his gloves buttery smooth. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah,” Peter rasped. Magneto stepped back by a fraction to let Peter rise to his feet, only somewhat ungainly. The man was still nearly a foot taller even when Peter was standing. He still felt like an ant beneath a boot. Only better now: it was that unspoken _sense_ of power, not simple brutality or bullying like it had been with Venom and Sabretooth, that made the danger elating, and not a crushing force to dodge. His breath hitched when Magneto’s fingers brushed at his sides. He took a strong grip there, squeezing his waist and rubbing his thumbs down. Pushed upwards over every rib, stilling the quick patter of Peter’s breath, then sunk back down to trace the ridges of his hips and the start of his thighs.

He lost himself somehow again, muddled and hazy, but within a blink Peter found himself backed against the console, hoisting himself up to sit on it as Magneto pushed one of his knees to the side, edging himself in between his legs. He couldn’t stop touching Peter’s face. He had pried one of the gloves off and was using the now bare hand to stroke Peter’s cheek, brush the hair from his eyes. The heat, as always, pumped through him now with sweet promises of rewards. Numbing him. His hands were still bound but the ache from the new bruises dimmed. He could feel Magneto’s breath at his face. Lips to his temple. His cheekbone.

When they kissed for real it was thoughtful, slow but not hesitant. Savoring the experience. He didn’t dive in like Logan or delve into passion, like Frank or Tony. It was only explorative. No tongue yet. Just adjusting to the space between them and how their skin connected, how the tips of their noses glanced upon the other’s cheeks, how their lips fit together and the comparisons of their skin. Magento’s hand was wandering up from his knee to his waist again. He rubbed the shirt up, exposing skin, and traced a finger over the rim of Peter’s pants. 

Then, sharp as a spear and as unexpected, Peter saw the man leaning over him as who he was, and not a vehicle for sex. He saw who he was about to let strip off his clothes, bite into his skin, touch him, bend his legs back. The heat was fissured down the middle with a cutting, pervasive, burning hurt.

His Aunt was dead.

“AAAAAAAAAHHH—“ The scream was erupting out of him, primal, and Peter wrenched back and knocked his head against metal and buttons, his bound hands a painful lump jutting into his spine, but he could not care, he was just swinging his legs up –

Down –

_CRACK._

Hit. 

“GET OFF! GET OFF YOU FUCKING –“

Swing. Down. 

_CRACK. BANG._

Peter flung upwards, off the panel, stumbling. Magneto was stumbling too, his head bowed and his arms streaming behind him from the blow, and when Peter looked over his shoulder and saw him try to straighten and felt his spider-sense tingle, crazed and ear-splitting, he shrieked. He leaped, spinning, kicks swinging in the way he’d adapted from real fighters, Iron Fist or Bruce Lee. His heels hit like axes.

 _WHAM._ The helmet flew off – _CRICK._ Flesh.

Bone.

His heel was wet.

His fall was disastrous. Both his knees clanked against the metal floor and he howled out when the bones there connected. His head hit the floor, but more softly, the brunt of the fall already taken. He could manage, no stars clouded his vision. Peter wheezed and threw himself to the side, onto one shoulder as he twisted and tugged and hollered, trying to loosen the metal at his wrists. He heard it creaking. He could feel it stretching. 

It popped loose and his wrists were quaking with the damage, but he was free. Peter spun to his feet, ready to shoot in for a proper hit but slipped a little on his right heel. 

Wet. The tang of blood hit his nose the exact moment he saw his handiwork laying limp before him. The helmet, the famed one that Magneto wore to prevent telepaths from their prying, had been dented and had skittered across the floor to rest upturned against the far wall. The man himself was down, limbs askew. His remaining eye bulged, and bled out of the corners. The other was lost in a pulp. The half of his face that Peter had kicked was crushed inwards from the top of the ear to the nose. Exposed bone that had tore the skin, freeing the slick reds and pinks and the mottled greys of the brain.

His spider sense had died out. The room was now a dead zone for sound. Or Peter had stopped hearing. One of the two. Both possible. He couldn’t feel anything, not the lumps on his head he’d taken from banging it around the floor and the control panel, nor the beating of his heart, the petulant ache in his abused knees.

Scent though, that was available to him. He could smell what he had done. And he knew his sock was wet. He looked down and saw it there, navy blue but blackened at the bottom around his heel. He could feel the slick stickiness now that he was looking.

Peter looked to the door. No one was rattling it. Looked to the sparking wires where the monitor had been. All the other screens were static fuzz or blank and black.

He looked back to Magneto and the canyon he’d hammered into his head.

He hadn’t meant to. He could never. Not like…

Peter’s hands were quavering, shaking back and forth like a hummingbird’s wing. All right. He needed to sit. Sit down. It was a slow descent to the floor and he shook the whole way there, as if he were an ailing and elderly man and not a fifteen year old boy who could lift cars and toss them through the air. He landed on his rear with a hard thud and kept himself upright with his hands, leaning back, legs loose in front of him.

He hiccuped. Gave up on staying upright and laid himself down on the floor.

Give him – he needed a minute. He needed ten minutes.

He thought of Aunt May’s smile. He couldn’t see rightly anymore. The room was flashing out to white in spurts. His heart rammed against his chest like it might try for escape, and he couldn’t gulp down air fast enough. It came to him in slivers under manic rhythms. It felt like drowning. It felt like death.

He didn’t _mean to._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She could feel the hand at her shoulder, warm and broad. She turned away at first, curling deeper into the covers, but then the wrongness of both being covered in sheets and lying flat struck her at once. Mary jolted awake and scooted up, her head pressing into the pillow. In the darkness above her was Logan. His hat was gone, and he was seated at the edge of the bed, hand on her shoulder still.

“When…why did you move me up here?”

“Figured you needed it. You were passing out.”

“I didn’t mean to.” She grimaced and sat up further. Her jacket and boots had been removed, but she was still in her jeans and shirt and socks. Mary rubbed at her eyes. She did not feel rested in the slightest. “Is she…”

She only looked Logan in the eye for half a second. His presence here, waking her, was enough. 

Then Mary was a flurry, the bed covers flying off as she bolted out of the bed and went for the door. The old wood of the stairs protested under the pounding of her feet, but she did not slow, clutching the end of the bannister as her fulcrum she swung around the bottom of the stairs, rushing down the hall to the quiet room she had dozed off in before. 

Dr. Strange was not at all surprised to see her slamming the door open, looking up at her with a grim smile. He was seated in Mary’s chair next to another bed, smaller but clad with more pillows than hers had. Mary gulped at the figure there, and approached with her hand extended. She entwined their fingers together. 

“You’re awake?” Mary croaked. “You’re all right?”

It looked to take her extraordinary effort to breathe, and maybe there was something of a rattle to it if Mary listened closely, but she smiled thinly when she spoke. “I’ve been better, sweetheart,” said Aunt May. She rattled again and her eyes watered. “God, you’re a gracious sight to see.”


	16. The Cavalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Familiar faces make a few comebacks as forces join to hunt down Peter Parker and the Brotherhood of Mutants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real warnings for this chapter, aside from minor hate speech. And a bit of jumping around in time, but I hope it's not too jarring. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's reading! Especially after something like 1823490821591475098 words. ~~Whoops.~~ We've rose to the climax though and we're inching ever closer to the end. SLOWLY BUT SURELY. Major love to you all, seriously!  <3 <3 <3

When Frank Castle, Logan of no known last name, and Mary Jane Watson had collectively piled into a stolen car and pulled up at the one and only Dr. Strange’s house eight hours prior, the man came out to greet them and was mystically not stunned to see them decorated with blood splatter and smelling of smoke. 

“Someone had an adventure without me,” he had remarked dryly, before sending the still reeling Mary upstairs with his manservant Wong, who had offered her wet towels and to launder her jacket. She had thanked him with a whisper and stood shaking in the bathroom for five minutes, alone, riding out the panic she could still feel washing over her nerves. She flipped up the toilet seat and hovered over it on her knees, hair pulled back to her nape, waiting for her stomach to turn itself out. It never did, even though she forced a few coughs to coax it along.

When she felt fit to face them all, she tiptoed back down to join the other three and slipped in beside Logan without a word. He put his arm around her on sight. Frank Castle was perched on the edge of a couch, hunched over a beer that he held forlornly between his knees, staring at the floor. Doctor Strange himself had a bourbon or a whiskey or something of that ilk, elegant golden-brown and swirling in a fussily etched tumbler. Mary had only ever seen him on television but he looked a lot less lively up close, waxen faced and lavender bags puffing out under of his eyes. Logan had a beer in his hand too, and was already down to the last sip. 

“Just told them what happened,” Logan said. He hadn’t changed out of his bloodied shirt, but he had washed whatever had gotten on his skin. Mary supposed Dr. Strange wouldn’t have anything in either of their sizes. 

“Hi,” she said, nodding and holding a hand out to their host. “I’m MJ. Um.” _Peter’s girlfriend._

“I’ve heard. I’m Stephen,” he smiled at her, shaking her hand with the warm delicacy grown men always reserved for her. 

“Yeah. Peter’s told me about you,” she said. Strange flushed around his ears. Castle looked up from his reverie, strained around the eyes, and Logan’s gaze flicked between them both.

There was a queasy (and mildly furious) jump in her gut when it occurred to Mary that of everyone in the room, she was the only one who hadn’t slept with her boyfriend. Judging from his sidelong glances, Logan had sussed out as much too. 

“Good things,” she added hastily, and hoped that would patch the whole matter up. “Nothing but good things.”

“All right,” Strange smiled. He was still unable to meet her eyes. Logan squeezed her arm and she shrugged in response.

“You got any idea who it was in the car with you?” Castle intervened. 

“The Kingpin sent them,” she said, “They wanted to know where Spider-Man was. Nobody’s buying that he’s dead.”

“Of course not,” Strange cut in. “No offense. But now that they’ve leaked your boyfriend’s photos there’s a whole slew of people swearing he’s still alive. It was a crapshoot of a cover story, and no body to boot.”

“No shit,” Castle remarked.

Mary frowned at him. “Never mind that. How did you find us tonight? How did you even know where to look?”

“I called him,” Logan answered. He let her go to fish a phone out of his jean pocket. Flip phone. “I got this outta the guy when I was searching him for his keys.”

Castle rustled in his corner. “His name was Delmar.”

“You serious? Poor sunovabitch.”

The landlord. Mary pursed her lips. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Castle. It’s my fault.”

“Was bound to happen. If it wasn’t you, someone woulda shot him over me,” Castle remarked, as if he were commenting on the takedown of a gazelle by a pack of lions on a nature channel. That was life, that’s nature, it’s a mad world and all those clichés. He took a contemplative swig, tense throughout his whole form. Mary supposed that was the most eulogy the poor man was going to get. “Was on my way back to my place anyway. Those mafia fucks were clean enroute.”

“I’m still sorry,” she insisted.

“Kiddo, it’s all right,” Strange said. “I think you’ve had a tough enough day as it is.”

There wasn’t much she could say to that. Logan jostled her and offered the last of his beer to her. Mary almost laughed, but took a fraction of a sip to be polite. It did help some, and Strange offered to have Wong get her hot cocoa instead. She opted to sit while she waited, leaving a careful foot and a half between herself and the stone-still Punisher. Logan bristled, but did not join her. 

“So…” she said without a trace of subtlety .

“Down to business, huh?” Castle replied, his voice no more than a Sin City rumble. He drained his beer and clacked it onto the table. “I don’t know who took your boyfriend.”

“But you were there,” Mary pressed.

“After. I found the car, and I found his Aunt face down in an alley.”

She gaped. “You _what?_ ”

“She’s alive. She was out, but alive. Not by much, though.” Castle rubbed his forehead. “Took her to a hospital and had her registered under Jane Doe. They were trying to get an ID on her.”

“And then the news broke,” Strange added.

“Then the news broke. So I had to break back into the hospital and fish her out of there before anyone realized that Spider-Man’s Aunt was hooked up by the nose their machines. I didn’t have a lot of options where to go. Don’t know who or how many people the kid’s pissed off, so I went with my gut.” 

“Even if I’m not that kind of Doctor,” Strange shrugged. 

She faced him, then Castle, back and forth with the hair-trigger suspense of a squirrel on the open ground. “…So she’s here?” 

She gave them no time for answers, bursting off of the couch. Logan caught her by the wrist before she could commence her one-woman siege upon the Strange household. “Sit back down, Red, she’s sleeping.”

“I want to see her!”

“Let her be for now.”

“How do we know it’s really her—“

“I can smell her, kid, it’s the real deal.”

Mary scoffed. “You know what Peter’s Aunt _smells_ like.”

“Don’t start lipping me again.”

“As I was saying,” Strange said loudly, squeezing in between Mary and the door with peaceable hands raised, “I’m not that kind of doctor, and we’re lucky that she had some real treatment before we had to take her out of the hospital. I’m doing what I can with spells, but she’s still recovering. And it would be best that we didn’t wake her.”

Mary fumed, but settled with a glower, ripping free of Logan’s hold to cross her arms. “Spells.”

“Yes. Spells. I’m hardly a master of it but at least a heart condition’s easy enough to manage. At least the aftermath of it. I found a few incantations in these dusty old books and she’s doing better by all accounts.”

“You couldn’t have got her a real doctor by now?” Logan asked. 

Castle shook his head. “Thought about talking to S.H.I.E.L.D., but you can’t ever be sure with those assholes.”

“No, you’re right,” Mary admitted bitterly. “You probably did the right thing. Whoever did it knew they were leaving the Triskelion. They would have had some connection to S.H.I.E.L.D., or a line tapped or…I don’t know. Something.”

“Should we contact them now?” Strange pressed. The question was aimed at Logan, which ruffled Mary a bit, but she pushed to answer regardless.

“No. Maybe not.” She started to fiddle with her hair. “I’m not sure. We still don’t know who attacked them. She hasn’t said anything?”

“She hasn’t woken up.”

The couch rustled. Frank Castle stood, and though he could no longer lower his eyes to the ground in his solitary grousing, he still refused to look at a single one of them. He had eyes only for the exit. “I’m out. You three can settle it from here.”

“You’re leaving now?” Mary asked, flummoxed.

She would almost rather he had kept not looking at her, because when he did meet her stare she could see in the squint, the angry furrow in his brow and even the film noir set of his frown, that he was haunted. Some sharp and relentless thing was cutting away at him even as he stood in the domesticity of a plush living room with a freshly finished beer in his gut. And Mary, who had spent a great deal of the last few weeks loathing each of the men standing here now, at last understood what Peter meant when he said he worried more for them than himself. 

“I owed the kid. Far as I know, I’ve paid him back the best I can.” The nod he gave her held the finality of an execution. “Hope you find him.”

Logan tossed him the dead landlord’s keys and phone as he made for the door. All three watched him go in silence. Mary’s heart rose to the pitter patter of her mind as she tried to think of some brilliant cure, some form of saving grace. It was hard to think what wouldn’t anger him further, what wouldn’t shame him, what wouldn’t call it out too obviously. What would actually get him to let it go.

She trotted to the door, still unsure of what might come out of her, and called to him in the dark of the door steps. “Mr. Castle?”

Her answer was a flash of light shifting on metal, and the swing and thud of the car door. Frank Castle was reduced to a flat, inky silhouette through the window. The engine roared to life and he pulled away, tail lights winking out of existence behind a sharp corner. He might not have even heard her at all.

Or he had, and he didn’t want to bother with her. Though it was summer and a scorching one at that, there was a subtle chill settling into her bones through from the night air. 

It also occurred to her that he’d been drinking. Mary cringed and sent a silent prayer to whoever would listen that he wasn’t going to crash the car somewhere.

When she returned inside Mary accepted the now ready and steaming cocoa from Wong without a word, pressing it to her lips dourly. Strange had absconded to some other chamber without them, and that only left Logan once Wong abandoned them too. He was watching her closely, head cocked.

“You’re just like him, you know that?” At her bemused look he added, “Parker. You both think you can fix everything by talking it to death.”

She scowled at him. “I don’t get into half as much trouble as Peter.” 

Logan snorted. 

“And I dress better.”

“You and the rest of New York.”

“I don’t know. Have you met Moon Knight?”

Strange re-entered, somewhat more composed, and offered to show her to Aunt May’s room then. Mary had accepted without a second thought, and later drifted off to sleep next to the woman, empty cocoa mug dangling from her fingers.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

By the time Jean stomped past them to pick up the phone that Saturday morning, Bobby Drake had out-driven, out-shot, and out-hookered Kurt Wagner on every conceivable level.

“Have either of you seen daylight since you picked up that stupid game?”

“If the strip club is daylight, then yes, about fifty times.”

“The strippers are pixels, Bobby.”

“Very nicely shaped pixels,” Kurt assured.

Bobby bit his lip as he made a particularly spectacular landing. “God bless GTA.” Beside him Kurt nodded sagely and murmured a prayer. Jean made that sigh that came with her grandest eye rolls and switched to complete cordiality as she answered the phone.

“Hello – Logan?”

He was hopping out of his car, now sadly compressed into an automotive accordion, and yanking out the driver of a sweet little sporty number that happened to be passing by when Jean suddenly patted the couch and gave them shush hands. He groused, but paused the game and turned to watch her argue with Logan.

Except she wasn’t arguing. She was looking more and more like she’d uncovered some macabre murder scene. “You what? Okay -- what?” She looked upwards, free hand now tugging at her already sparingly short hair. “Peter Parker? _That_ Parker?”

Kurt prodded his shoulder. “Zat is the guy…”

“Spider-Man? Yup, pretty sure.” Or Kitty’s Nerd Ex, as he had been called around the house, but that was beside the point. There had been a ton of talk about him on the news lately and some idiot had pulled up pics of the guy in his civvies and put them on the net, and that was after S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken the extra pains of sending out a suit monkey to tell them that he was officially retiring and they all had to pretend Spider-Man had died.

Basically it had been a huge hairball and a chief subject of gossip around the house, and if the Professor hadn’t intervened citing S.H.I.E.L.D.’s wishes as a cease and desist, they might have acted on the muttered plans about sneaking off to the Big Apple and finding out why Spidey’s life was exploding into a huge ball of suck. 

“Oh my god, you’re kidding – okay you’re not kidding, you’re really not kidding. Okay. I’ll patch you through to the Professor. Cripey cripe cripes.” She took the phone away, tapping in buttons with her lips pressed finely together.

“Vat’s up?” Kurt asked gingerly.

“It’s the Brotherhood,” she rattled back. She didn’t look up to face either of them.

“Whoa! Okay, we thought you were talking about Spider-Man?”

“I am. We were – oh man. Guys, I think we need to suit up, like now.” The phone blared again and Jean thrust it away in disgust. “This is not about the gas bill. If this is about the gas bill right now, I’m giving everyone over there such a migraine. Hello?”

It wasn’t. She shot them both a foreboding look, pale and grim. “…Nick Fury? This is the actual Nick Fury?”

Bobby’s pulse soared. She snapped her fingers at them, urging them to hustle as she started to transfer that call over too. As if that wasn’t ominous enough, Charles Xavier’s voice was suddenly chiming in their heads and every other mutant’s in the mansion. _Everyone, report to the jet. Get in uniform. There will be an emergency debriefing once we’ve assembled. ___

__Kurt sank into the cushions, dejected, and picked up Bobby’s controller to end the game. “So much for GTA day…”_ _

____

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I’m so not ready for this,” Johnny groaned. He flexed against the strap holding down his left arm and found next to no give in it. Across from him Jessica Drew, similarly bound, was offering a timid smile in apology.

“You don’t have to do this. I’m sure we can get some S.H.I.E.L.D. peon instead.” She tried to shrug and only barely managed. “I really am sorry for yesterday. They said the new restraints are Hulk lite, so no…uh, no repeats today. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” Johnny parroted. 

“I see they got you new pants.” 

They both went quiet. Jessica cleared her throat. “Are they going to be able to fix—“

“You split them from crotch to knee.”

“I know.”

“Funeral’s on Monday.”

Jessica cringed. “Seriously though, sorry again.”

“I’m more mad that Reed had to see me in my underpants.” With half a boner rising in their confines and a clone of Peter Parker trying to gulp it down whole, but neither one wanted to say that bit aloud. Even if, under different circumstances, Johnny wouldn’t mind a cute girl…

Which was leading into equally dangerous territory, because even before he had to spend all day looking at her Johnny had to admit that Peter-as-Jessica made an extremely cute girl. That propelled him back to the same questions he’d posed himself after making out with Peter, because he’d also had to concede that Peter himself made an extremely cute boy. He could scarcely think about it without glancing over his shoulder, fearful that someone might look at him and just know he was thinking gay thoughts. (Remind him to avoid that Jean girl and Professor X and anyone else who could scour his brain.) Sometimes he figured that maybe it was some lingering after effects of his powers, especially after MJ had gone into detail about just how crazy they could get, but there were times when it all felt just as genuine and curious as it did for any hot girls he met. Even when he had come back and been playing cards with everyone at the Parker’s he had kept stealing sidelong glances at Peter and admiring the way his hair fell into his eyes, and his impish smile. Once you saw it, it was impossible not to notice. He only hoped that Peter – or MJ – hadn’t caught on. He’d get punched by one of them. Maybe both. Probably definitely both.

And Peter’s cuteness lead back to Jessica’s cuteness and being forced to get super hot for her five times yesterday before they’d called it quits and Reed focused on the blood work, gnattering on about triggers and indecipherable clods of DNA. Yadda yadda yadda science boners. Johnny sighed and wished ever so earnestly that he had never volunteered as a woody-springing guinea pig in the first place. “At least he says he’s making headway.”

The door, some heavy duty Star Wars-esque affair, inexplicably blared open. Sue sprinted in, throwing a hand in Jessica’s direction and the air glinted like glass. She had put up a shield.

“Sue?” Johnny said in alarm.

The screen above them blared to life. Reed was there, and Ben, the former of which hammering buttons madly as he spoke to them. “Experiment’s cancelled. Sorry Jessica – we’ll release you once we’ve got Johnny in the clear.”

“Whoa, what? Where’s the fire?” She squirmed in her bindings, baffled. 

Sue was hitting buttons on the panel that controlled Johnny’s restraints, and they popped open one by one. “Johnny, we gotta get a move on. They found Peter.”

It was as if someone had shot them both with 100 volts. Johnny and Jessica jolted as one, stiff and upright even for how soundly strapped they were.

“For real?” Jessica ventured, awestruck. Hopeful. “He’s alive?”

Then Johnny was rattling at the restraints, and Sue could not pop them loose nearly fast enough. Fire was crackling in his hair.

“Get -- _Get me out!_ Let’s go, now!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“With all of you here, Danvers is staying behind to make sure no one blows up New York while we’re gone. The X-Men have been alerted about the Brotherhood’s location, and officially invited along for the ride.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Hawkeye badgered. He was leaning against a panel that Tony Stark, already cocooned in his armor, wasn’t punching coordinates into. “A lot of them are pretty…not adults.”

“Magneto’s their favorite sack of crazy. And we need the telepaths.”

“What for?” Janet interjected, jogging into the pit and slipping into her seat. Nick shot her a withering look.

“You know why.”

Thor, who was already seated and clasping his hands together in thought, murmured the sobering truth. “You wish to know if the boy lives before we arrive.”

Stark stopped typing. Janet took a deep breath, likely intended to be silent but failing utterly.

“The feed cut out, Fury,” Stark muttered. As good as he was at keeping a cool head, and distant as the man became behind the suit, there was a clear waver in his typically easy lines. The quips were coming snippishly, if at all, and he had defaulted to a low, husky register to speak with, sounding more and more like an animal wounded. “They had to have found him. He ratted on Magneto’s great escape. I don’t think they’ll be inclined to show him mercy.”

Nick had hoped it would be obvious enough without stating. He looked steadily forward. “Odds are slim,” he admitted. His throat was clasping shut. His chest was burning. None of it showed, he had years of practice to thank for that, but god, it was stinging like it hadn’t for years. “You’ve all seen the transmission now. But if he is dead, and if there are no other captives being held there? Then I’ve got no qualms letting the big guns blaze.”

“Aiming to kill?” asked Rogers. Not disapprovingly, for once.

“If we have to. Magneto’s not been cooperative, to say the least. And the telepaths might come in handy if Parker’s alive and still spewing his shit pheromones in every damn direction. They could at least try to shut that off.” 

In the man’s cell, once the ammo had been brought out and measures taken to check for common illusions, they had found the illusion spewing, C-list mutant terrorist Mastermind, aka Jason Wyngarde, and his girlfriend in the cell, taking a sweet S.H.I.E.L.D. paid vacation for god knows how long now. Both of them were currently entering the wringer, being questioned by the best agents he had to spare. He was taking a lot of people with him, considering where they were headed. Taking down the Brotherhood’s stronghold hadn’t been the easiest last time, and Nick was loathe to go in unprepared.

Pietro and Wanda, thankfully, were needed far away in Thailand for a different pursuit, and were discretely left clear of the loop in case either one of them decided it was a nice day for defecting back to Daddy.

The engines fired up. Communications blared too, other agents successfully boarded on other decks and ships, artilleries ready. The Fantastic Four chimed in on their own channel, using one of Reed’s fiddly radios even though they were on the same damn ship as the rest of them. Nick grimaced as they rose from the ground.

“We got at least some good news. The Aunt’s alive.” 

Janet in particular perked up. “Are you serious?”

“She’s at that kook Dr. Strange’s house, with the girlfriend too.” Nick let himself smile, even if by halves and only for a second. “We’ve got a car out to pick them up and the Pryde girl and haul them back to headquarters where they belong.”

“So they lied to Parker about his Aunt?” Stark remarked coldly. He was stiff as a statue at the controls.

Janet gawked and shook her head, turning to share affronted looks with Rogers. “Shitholes,” she said in astonishment. “They’re all a bunch of shitholes. Why would you do that to a kid?”

“If they’re smart, then that’s the worst they’ll have fucking done to him.” No one spoke after that. Nick wasn’t sorry for the slip.

If Parker was in anything less than one piece when he got there, you’d have to excuse him for his appalling unprofessionalism.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aunt May was fighting to keep her eyes open, the lids fluttering even as she spoke. “Where’s Peter?” she rasped, squeezing Mary’s hand.

“Missing. He’s still missing.”

She inhaled a sour breath through her nose, mouth twisting. Then her attention was at the doorway and she scowled faintly. “Is that…That’s the one from the X-Men?”

Logan had joined them. He made no move to come so much as an inch closer, standing guard as he leaned against the frame. “Yes,” Mary said hurriedly. “That’s Logan. He’s been looking out for us.”

“Mmm.” Aunt May drifted for a moment, nose wrinkled and eyes sealed shut. Dr Strange sat up straighter at Mary’s panicked look.

“She’s fine. It’s just the spells – they require a lot of sleep. I’m sorry.”

Aunt May shook her head on the pillow, muttering to herself until she could summon her focus once again. She peered at Logan again through bleary slits. “They were yours.”

Logan’s head tilted. Mary jostled their entwined hands. “What do you mean? Mrs. Parker…”

“There was a big one…the Juggernaut. Peter called him the Juggernaut. He grabbed our car and…” she swatted her hand limply in the air. The name was one that Mary had done minor research on, but only enough to know who he was allied with and what he could do. 

Logan, however, went suddenly stiff, jaw clenching. “The Juggernaut? You’re sure about that?”

Aunt May nodded weakly. “I heard about him once on the news. I’m pretty sure. And the first one, she was pretending to be that girl. That Kitty girl. She tried to get Peter out of the car and then she shot at us, and then the Juggernaut came, and there was another…a big man, a big lion-looking man…” Aunt May was wincing, sweat shimmering at her brow. Dr. Strange swiped a tissue from the nightstand and blotted it away. “They sent him after me. Peter told me to run and I was trying…but I couldn’t…”

Tears, now. Mary took over for Dr. Strange, throat swelling as she watched the woman grow fainter and sadder. Logan swore vehemently and tore out of the room. “It’s okay, Mrs. Parker, you don’t have to say anything else.”

“Please find him,” she begged in a wisp. “Please find my boy.”

“We will,” Mary whispered. Aunt May grimaced and Mary bent down to kiss her cheek as she was lost again to sleep.

“I’ll watch her,” Dr. Strange promised. Mary nodded, stroking the woman’s hand with her thumb one last time before making to follow Logan.

He was on the phone when she caught up to him in the hall, demanding to speak with ‘the Professor’ and running through the details of Peter’s situation. He only paid her mind when he hung up and slung the cell into his pocket, giving her a sidelong glance. Mary knew what was coming before he said it.

“You’re staying put.”

“I know.” A part of her was still thumping with the need to go, to find Peter and hold him close and rip apart the ones that took him by whatever means she could, but Mary knew better. She had Norman Osborn and the bridge, she had that skinless psycho clone of Peter’s, the Kingpin’s posse from yesterday. Each incident spoke of her complete and utter uselessness. She’d tried her best to rebel against it and now there were five fresh bodies with her name on them. “At least we found Aunt May,” she said, lost in a hush.

“We’re gonna get him, too,” Logan assured. “I gotta go. They’ll be swinging by in the X-Jet to pick me up soon.”

She was gnawing at her lip. “Do you think that it’s…Logan, what if it’s a mutant power? Why else would the Brotherhood be after him?”

“Kid, you’d be hard pressed to find a bunch that’s better at dealing with out of control mutants than us.” He patted her shoulder, let his thumb rub soothingly over the denim of her jacket. “I mean it. You stay here with his Aunt and don’t do anything stupid. Get S.H.I.E.L.D. on it if they’re not already.”

Mary couldn’t argue with any of it. She had to think of Peter, how he’d need her when they brought him back. He’d need his Aunt. She nodded, squaring him in the eye with a look that spoke of the fire lighting her nerves, her surging adrenaline even if she was standing motionless in hall god knew how many hundreds of miles away from the fight. She whispered, “Give them hell.”

He smirked. Though it seemed a large part cocky he also looked strangely proud. Maybe she had come off more bloodthirsty than she had thought. “S’one of my specialties.”

He was out the door the next moment, leaving nothing behind but the engorged knots in Mary’s belly.

Just as she was thinking she ought to call someone at S.H.I.E.L.D., bugged lines or not, the phone rang on its own. Within a minute Dr. Strange rushed out to find her in the hall and informed her that S.H.I.E.L.D. was on its way to collect her and Aunt May. 

“They’ve found out where all the little mutants are hiding and are on their way now. They’ve got your mom out of police custody too. I’m guessing they want you where schmucks like the Kingpin can’t get you,” he said with a small shrug. The knots twisted even further in her belly and Mary crossed her arms with a bitter huff.

“Have they got a two bedroom apartment over there? Because I’m pretty sure there’ll be schmucks after us for the next thirty years.”

“Well. Something will work out, I’m sure. They’ll either find a better lie to cover you with or…if not, you have my sincere condolences. You might want to invest in a good pair of shades and some big thugs to follow you around for a while. I hear that’s usually how it’s done. They shouldn’t be long though – uh, you’re probably hungry. Quick breakfast before you go?”

He led her into the kitchen himself, no Wong this morning, and she caught him surreptitiously hiding some strawberry poptarts from view by sliding a box of Special K in front of them. 

When her ride did come, there were five agents at the door, stretcher in tow. The largest of which introduced himself as Hutcherson and shook her hand. “Miss Watson. We’ve got Miss Pryde in the car already, and we’ve set up accommodations at the Triskelion for all of you.”

“My Mom?”

“Already waiting for you there.”

Dr. Strange shook her hand, and Mary had pulled out her wallet and tried valiantly to offer him the money Logan wouldn’t take. He too refused, laughing and pressing it back into her palm, telling her to treat herself to some new shoes when she got the chance. He led the other four agents forward, stretcher in tow, while Hutcherson put his hand on her back and guided her outside. There were two vans alone on the other side of the street, the morning crisp and still quiet save for the sparse chirping of birds. Mary wasn’t even sure what time it was, come to think of it. 

"Hey! Hey, you! Red!"

There was a wiry looking homeless guy (she assumed) approaching from the left, blond and gaunt around the cheeks, waving her down. The agent pushed her forward with true muscle behind it and Mary stumbled a little. She shot him a stunned look over her shoulder, affronted.

"Get in the car," he ordered, clipped and steadfast. 

"Hey! You're his girlfriend right? You're Spider-Man's girlfriend?"

Mary ducked her head and walked quicker, catching Kitty's faint silhouette in the black window. The agent ushered her forward alone, staying back to shoo away the interloper.

"Hey! Don't walk away from me!"

"Sir, you need to step back."

"I need to talk to her," he insisted, eyes steady on Mary. "I need to talk to you."

Mary trotted faster and kept her gaze on the ground.

"Don't fucking walk away from me! HEY!"

"Move along, son, this doesn’t concern you."

"Come on, lady!"

She hopped into the car, Kitty scooting aside to make room as she slammed the door shut. The world outside disappeared, birdsong silenced and the angry hobo gone on mute. The bliss of the armored car.

"What's his problem?"

"He's raving about Spider-Man, what else?" Mary said hurriedly. She gave the girl a once over, and decided: to hell with pretenses. She leaned over for a desperate hug and Kitty seemed all too happy to oblige. "Glad you're okay."

"Samesies." It wasn't entirely true. Kitty looked like she had barely slept a wink and was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, but she was alert and unharmed. That was as much of a miracle as Mary needed. They drew away from each other, smiling but still stuck in urgency. "So you found Aunt May?"

"They should be wheeling her out any moment now. Where's your mom?"

"Vermont. She picked a good weekend. Nobody knows what she looks like up there, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is still sending out a ride for her. Can't believe it's the Brotherhood, though," Kitty groaned. "And they're still frigging benching me! I was an X-Man, for crying out loud! This is my exact forte!"

"I guess they feel like you're too involved? Considering…"

"Maybe. Is that blood?" Kitty was reaching over to pick at a small speckling of red at the hem of her shirt, sticking out where her now clean jacket couldn't cover. Mary folded the fabric back, sullen.

"It's a long story."

"I've got ti– where did the agent go?"

Mary turned to follow the bewildered stare Kitty was sending out the window, and saw the homeless man next to them, bending down to peer inside.

She snapped out, aiming to click the lock shut but the door swung open before she could. He leaned back in, one arm settled on the roof and the other keeping the door splayed wide, like how the jocks cornered girls at their lockers. 

"You got a minute?"

"Get out, creepazoid!" Kitty spat. He looked to her, unmoved.

"You're the other one, huh? Phaser Girl."

"It’s Shadowcat," she barked. He wasn’t deterred in the slightest.

"And you're Mary Ann."

Mary inched back. He didn't smell bad, and he was younger looking up close. Maybe less scruffy than he had seemed at first. It was more the tempestuous cloud he carried about him, a Jack Nicholson throwback to the Shining days, that made her think they ought to be running. She wet her lips and answered cautiously. "Mary Jane..."

He snorted at that. "Okay. Phaser Girl and Blazer Girl. Look, I just want to know what's up with Spider-Man."

"Why?" Mary queried. Kitty leaned over her with raised hackles. 

"Where did the agent go?"

The man smiled. "Inside? Come on, it's an easy question."

"He's dead," said Kitty.

"Yeah, I don't think he is," he countered, flashing teeth.

Kitty was refusing to back down. "What's it to you?"

He wasn't smiling anymore. The shadows seemed to dip further into his face, turning the bones and the hollows and the curves outlining his eyes into dramatic rises and falls. "I need him," he said. 

It was as if the first wind of winter had rushed at her, pricking her skin to numbness. Patches of gooseflesh rose all over Mary, and she reached backwards to seize the other girl by the wrist. "Kitty..."

"He screwed me over. Your little boyfriend, he turned me into a freak. He ever tell you that?" He paused for only a moment, giving them a hair's breadth to answer. Neither did. "No? I thought he wouldn't. He likes to pretend he's such a saint. But the guy ruined my life. And now I'm stuck. And I'm hungry, and I can't ever stop feeling it gnawing at me, everywhere. Non-stop. I feel like I'm going to go up in smoke every minute, every day, and no matter what I eat I'm fucking starving.

"Funny thing about it is, the only thing that makes it better is _him_. Being near him, it all goes away. Poof, like magic. He’s makes me feel human again. I don't understand it myself, but he's got something I need." He let go of the open door to press a finger into Mary's arm. She shied away. His touch was icy cold. "And so right now, you've got something I need. I know he's not dead, and I know you're not piling into this secret spy car to go for ice cream. So. Where's he at?"

Mary could barely speak. Drawing the air for it had become impossible. “You need to leave,” she ordered waifishly, eyes wide.

“Do I?” He laughed at her and shook his head. “Come on. What’s it gonna take to get him to crawl out of the woodwork?” His gaze bounced between her and Kitty with an insidious glint. “I mean here’s both of his chicks, cozying it up in the back seat, and he’s still nowhere to be seen. But that’s probably because he’s a huge fag. Bet he didn’t tell you that either.”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Mary hissed. Livid. Terrified. Her wrist endured a spasm and Kitty grabbed her arm, turning them into a knot of white knuckled grips. Kitty used the tangle to subtly pull her back and away. “You stop talking. You’re the one who raped him. It’s your fault he almost died.”

The man’s grin faded to a putrid sneer, pure ice in every word. “That’s how he’s telling it, is he? You must have not seen him when we first met. He was crawling all over me, crying about his stupid girlfriend dumping him. Which one of you was that?”

Though she couldn’t move her eyes from him if she tried, Mary still saw the door open to Strange’s house behind him through the hazy outskirts of her vision. The figure exiting stopped still, then whipped out something from their middle.

“BROCK!”

The man turned and took a bullet for his efforts, the foreboding bang quaking the empty morning. But there was a burst of black oil leaping out of his chest, rippling and coating him with a new skin as he recoiled from the blow. Kitty yanked Mary backwards, and her snakish grip around her bicep was the only thing she could feel as her body floated, intangible, through the leather and metal of the car. The two of them sailed out of the passenger side.

“RUN!” Kitty shrieked. Mary did her best to oblige and didn’t look back.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He had been half certain he was going to die from the strain alone, his heart booming like a cannon, threatening to blow any second. His stomach had turned and chucked its contents around like clothes in a dryer. Movement was impossible. All his strength had fled him and he had laid, fetal, on the cold metal floor with nothing more than his shuddering and desperate panting to show he was still alive.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been down, but not once did the mercy of unconsciousness pay him a visit. Peter rode out the shakes and the nausea and the sweltering, suffocating terror that he was going to drown in nothing but air. 

But he could think a little better now. He was blinking, guarding his middle as he rolled onto all floors and spat on the floor. No bile. He hadn’t actually vomited. He spat again though, just to clear out the sour taste in his mouth from all the close calls.

Peter sat back on his heels and tilted his head back to the ceiling, guzzling air until he could feel his lungs full and flush again. His pulse simmered and slowed. 

Okay. He’d had a fit. Peter swiped the sweat off of his brow and refused to look at the figure across from him on the floor. It was okay. Lots of people had fits. Honestly it was a shock that it had taken him this long to have a complete and total breakdown, considering how stupid his life was. And it was too much. With his Aunt May –

Peter moaned and curled over his legs, palms pressed to his eyes. Tears flooded there and he sobbed to himself, even as the sharpest edge of his mind urged him back to clarity.

He was in deep trouble. He was alive, and Magneto wasn’t, but that couldn’t have been helped. Magneto had been trying to kill him, and Peter had been terrified and unwilling to bend over for the umpteenth time, not even to save his own skin. Aunt May was gone and all he wanted to do was let his insides crumble and squeeze until he died too, but he wasn’t sure he had time to let it all sink in now because he was still stuck in the godforsaken Brotherhood of Mutants’ secret lair and he had just _murdered_ their ringleader, and how was it that no one had yet come in here to carve him up for that tidy offense?

He hoped it would be quick when they did.

Peter rolled flat onto his back and watched the ceiling, still sniffling, breath scraping his ragged throat. Getting up was an impossibility in his state, and a pointless venture, anyway. He had nothing. He had no family. She was gone. He was useless as Spider-Man now too, little more than a joke. A complete embarrassment. A pariah. He’d have to spend the rest of his life locked away in solitary confinement. Who would even want him like this? He rubbed his hands down the sides of his face, puckering his cheeks, his lips.

Just as Mary Jane had that night in his room, joking about him having a butt face and blowing him raspberries. Telling him she loved him.

He let his eyes close and then her face was outlined in the thin darkness. The curve of her lashes, her nose, each and every freckle and the way she laughed and the way she cried, the way she grimaced when she found bell peppers in her food. 

It took him some time, lying in his self-imposed blackout and coasting through the chokehold misery had on every muscle and bone and tendon in his body, but Peter pushed himself upwards. He didn’t deserve her. But he needed her. _Needed._ Without Aunt May she was his last thread of sanity, and when he thought of her Peter had the will to get up, he could rise to his feet, he could stumble on rubbery legs towards the door and reach for the handle. 

Though little else waited for him outside now, he ached to see Mary Jane again. Even from a distance. Even for a moment.

There were no glances spared to the body behind him. He would lose his nerve if he looked. It might be stiff by now. How long did rigor mortis take to set in? If he knew he could at least get an estimation of how long he’d spent spasming on the floor like a dying bug, but he would probably have another fit just thinking about touching it.

If no one had found them yet, then maybe no one would find them. Not until Peter had found somewhere safe, or stumbled over wherever they kept the land rovers. He’d figure out something. 

Luckily for him, the hall was still clear. Even that little fish guy he’d thrown out earlier had seemingly gotten up and padded off to parts unknown. Maybe to get his head looked at. Was it because Magneto had come after him? Did he tell everyone else to go mind their business elsewhere while he skipped off to crush Peter’s skull under his boot?

…Oh god. What an awful time for irony. His own sock was now clinging to his heel through the dry bloody crust between the knit and his skin, and crunched damningly when he walked on it. His own tell-tale heart.

Peter opted out of continuing on foot. The walls felt more solid, he could stick with all fours rather than teeter around the compound on two shifty feet. And his heel wouldn’t have to touch the floor, he’d only have to tread on his palms and toes. He ripped off both of his socks when he hit the ceiling and tossed them to the floor. He should hide them in the room: it might be less of a red flag that something had gone hideously wrong inside, but there was no chance he was opening that door again. For anything. 

There was still a damning stain around the skin of his heel, but Peter didn’t have time to deal with that. Now that he’d made up his mind about escaping he was consumed by the need to do it. 

Peter scuttled further down the hall, and slid around the corner. 

He avoided most doors, and at one point had to halt and huddle in a corner as best as he could as two mutants went sprinting past him. They didn’t notice him high above, and were fraught with a panic of their own. Maybe someone had found Magneto by now. Peter waited until their footsteps were long past, then bolted as best he could manage on the roof.

Fortune smiled on him when he found an elevator. It wasn’t even key operated, no retinal scans or pass codes. Peter clambered inside and hit the first floor button, collapsing against the back wall again.

His spider sense was a delicate, steady hum, and had been since he’d passed those two mutants. Something was up. Or they were out for him, looking still, or maybe Magneto had the building programmed to self destruct in the event of his death.

Which was ridiculous and maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly after all, but honestly, if anyone was self-important enough to do it? It was Magneto. Or Dr. Doom.

He hid against the button panel when the doors opened until he was sure that his spider sense wasn’t buzzing, then he zipped out and leaped to the wall, running sideways for some distance before rounding a corner and returning to the floor for better speed. Ground floor. He would find some way out here. First exit he could, he was taking, and he’d figure things out from there. 

Or or or—

Peter skidded to a stop, and doubled back.

Was that a hangar? 

No. A sign leading to it: there was a long, steely hall stretching beyond the door that he could see through the minute round window, but the sign couldn’t be lying. Peter’s heart thudded. He’d given it loose thought and he knew he probably couldn’t pilot an aircraft for crap, but he was smart. Really smart if he was being frank, especially with machines, and if there was anything like the X-jet in there with a programmable autopilot? Now that, he could do some fiddling with. 

Peter slipped inside and ran further. It was far colder in this hall and he was loathe to stop moving, lest it sink in and kill his nerve. 

With zero preface the metal yawned and echoed. Shook. Then there was quiet. Peter halted, whipping his head back and forth to see which angle he was going to get assaulted from. Something had happened, something big. If death and vengeance weren’t coming for him already then Peter wasn’t sticking around to wait for them. He dashed off again. 

There was another door, then two or three. Peter shouldered past the locks, ignoring the bruise he’d have for shoving his way through metal, and gaped openly. Three large jets, sleek. Armed too, he realized uneasily with a look to their underbellies. He might have difficulties entering New York airspace with giant effing missiles strapped to the bottom of his escape plane. Assuming he could even fly one. Ought he check the rest of the hall? Maybe they had a few rides without city ravaging explosives as bonus features.

His spider senses shrieked. Peter jumped, spasming and tumbling like a spooked cat twenty feet from where he’d been standing, landing on all fours. There was another entrance some distance from his, on the left. 

Sabretooth, gobsmacked, surveyed him up and down from the frame of the door, hand still locked on the handle. Peter trembled, rising upright. Sabretooth’s gaze flicked to his foot.

He could smell it.

The man’s stare was like needles. Like ice. Peter was drawing back, spine rigid straight. “What the fuck did you _do?_ ”

Peter took in the mutant with alarming focus, his every nerve a livewire. He wasn’t just afraid anymore. A burbling flame was rising deep in his gut. His chest went tight. He didn’t recognize his own voice when he croaked back:

“The same thing you did to her.”


	17. Counting Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Mary Jane face down their monsters, and find that time is on neither of their sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for very violent violence here.
> 
> Oh dear god how has it been nearly two months. REAL LIFE GOT REALLY REAL FOR A BIT, OKAY. April was hell, and then there was a dark period of very severe writer's block, and I had to take a break from both of my chaptered fics and dive into a few one shots to pull myself out of it. 
> 
> I'm very, very sorry to have kept you waiting this long. Especially on such an awful note.

“You son of a _bi-_ ”

Peter didn’t permit him the luxury of pet names. He had lurched forward with such ferocity that Sabretooth had to dodge him or get his head knocked clear off. He had leaped to the side and skidded on all fours like the animal he was, claws raking gashes into the metal floor. Peter was on him again in a heartbeat. No holds barred now, and he did hear the fantastic crunch of bone when his fist collided mercilessly with the man’s collar bone.

For the first time in his life, the sound did not cow him. It fed him. _Good,_ he thought, chest blooming with hateful flames and his teeth gritted to aching. He wanted to snap him clean apart. He’d killed his Aunt. He’d raped him, viciously. He was shit, he was garbage, and Peter was overcome with the insatiable urge to wrap his fingers around that meaty neck and squeeze it into pulp.

At the moment he had to settle for leaping backwards – claws and all, made it tricky to stay too close for long – and snatching up a wheeled metal drawer chest, rattling with tools. He chucked it at Sabretooth. It missed, but it flew clear into a plane and crunched the nose inward like a puncture in a soda can, one of the propellers snapping off. Sabretooth dove at him, swiping. Peter somersaulted back. Then abruptly launched forward, feet first, landing both soundly in the man’s gut and sending him careening back into the wall some thirty feet away.

The metal dented and creaked. 

Sabretooth slid down, landing on his feet, huffing and wiping blood from his mouth. Peter could hear the bones cricking to correct themselves, and was outraged at how fucking cheap his powers made it all. Sabretooth laughed. 

“Ain’t playing around no more, are we Spidey?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Peter said. It came without vehemence. No growling or sneers. Just a plain and simple statement of facts, only the mania in his wide eyes betraying his savage state of mind. 

Sabretooth huffed and spat on the floor, righting himself with a roll of his shoulders. “Funny. I thought you were one of those wishy washy do-gooding types. What was it that made you change your mind?”

“Stop talking.”

“Was it your Auntie? Really?” Sabretooth sniggered and flexed his claws. “’Cause I read your file. Your Uncle corking it didn’t quite do the trick?”

“YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“And that sweet blond piece that was living with you. You telling me that didn’t get you riled up? Pretty young thing like that…”

He was not allowed to talk about them.

Peter rocketed into him, fist nailing hard against the metal where Sabretooth’s head was just moments ago. He hissed at the throbbing, but had no time to nurse the bruising. His spider senses sparked and he had to bend away from a swipe to his stomach. Sabretooth would have his organs on the ground before he let him get a hit in, but Peter could not be deterred now. He was taking him down, he would ruin him.

They were little more than blurs. Swipes and blunt punches, grunts and yelps. Peter’s pant leg was shredded and there were parallel gashes down his thigh, but not too deep. His jaw throbbed where Sabretooth landed a wallop, but Peter was paying him back in kind. The man had claws and he had his healing, his size, but Peter had speed and power. He was jabbing, kicking, and even snatched him by the collar and hurled him into the ground like a whip. Sabretooth was winded on impact, and Peter hastened to use those precious moments before he regained his breath. He zipped in to stomp on one wrist, put his hands out of commission for long enough to get at his head, but though he cracked the bones beneath his heel the other hand was jutting upwards for him already. 

Peter hollered, his calf bleeding hard as the claws sliced across it and he had to stagger away and hold it tight. Sabretooth rolled over, crouching, eyes dark and trained on Peter as he panted and stared him down from a distance. 

“Real fucking cute,” Sabretooth grunted, but his grin was gleaming and feral. “Almost makes a guy forget what you look like ass up and biting pillows.”

He knew it was coming. He expected it sooner, honestly, but it still did nothing to salve the body-wide sting of that remark. For an instant, a flash, he was back in that room. In the dark. On the mattress. Pinned.

Peter trembled and squeezed the gash tighter. “Don’t _even_ \--“

“That’s the real deal, isn’t it? I can smell it on you, you stupid fuck.” Sabretooth was rising. “Did he touch you, precious? Did the big bad Magneto give you a _scare?_ ” 

He struggled upright. He had to shut him up, he had to, or was going to flip. His skin was crawling. Anger still pulsed and rioted in every inch of him but there was icy quivers leaking in, and Peter knew that if he did not kill him now, he would be running and he wouldn’t stop until he dropped to the ground dead. 

Sabretooth was strolling closer. Strolling, not even taking this seriously enough to jump or stalk. “There ain’t no way you could have gotten close enough otherwise to make him bleed. Cheating little shit. Or did you get scared because you liked it?”

Peter jabbed for his face. Sabretooth was expecting that. He battered at Peter’s side and Peter hit the ground in a roll, but when the claws swooped down to rake across his face he launched himself high in the air, sailing over Sabretooth wholly and landing behind. He immediately struck out with a kick. It failed to knock him down again but he would be damned if he gave up that easy. Peter jerked forward, taking another punch to the ribs just for the chance to give a solid uppercut to the jaw. 

His spider sense was wailing. He was livid hot.

_No._

Peter jolted. He lost where he was, dizzy suddenly, stumbling backwards. With alarming detail he recalled that pot on the stove with the instant macaroni, leaning over it stupefied while Logan stood at his side.

Sabretooth was cackling. “What’s the matter, Spidey?”

He felt like he was melting. “No!” he shouted. He was leaping upright, bleeding calf shrieking from the effort but he had to get out of reach. Peter scrambled up the wall in a crab’s walk, but his body was limp and wilting, and he couldn’t seem to concentrate hard enough to keep the stickiness in his feet and fingers. 

The boom of Sabretooth’s laughter chased Peter up the wall and frolicked over the metal, every sound now a clanging omen in the echoes. “Should I be counting down?” Sabretooth slapped the wall and it shuddered, and Peter’s weak grip had him slipping down a foot before he could catch himself. Heat sprinted through the tracks of his skin and he nearly cracked his head on the wall he jabbed it back so fast, eyes wrenched shut. Peter hammered it in again, and again, praying hysterically for the spell to pass as he worked up black bruises on his skull. Sabretooth’s claws made a melody of long screeches as he dragged them down the metal wall, humming to himself.

“Come here,” he cooed, the sound of his voice slipping down Peter’s spine like hot butter. Deep, demanding. Animalistic. “Come on down, Petey. I’m waiting.”

He’d been able to stop it before. Peter thought of his Aunt. Clawed after the memory of her, feet up on the arm of the couch with her dish gloves still on, demanding he bring her tea and cookies. Kissing his forehead.

Kiss. Dark. Sabretooth in the bathroom, plunging into him while Peter was rammed against the wall. 

He couldn’t take it. He had to get out. It was the only way.

There was an exit on the opposite end of the hangar. If he jumped to the nearest plane, then hopped from top to top until he reached the far wall, he could outrun Sabretooth. He was sure. 

Peter leaped.

His calf spasmed on the spring and butchered his trajectory. 

Sabretooth had jumped too. He batted him out of the air like a volleyball. 

The fall jostled and knocked his bones when he collided with and skittered over the hard cement. Peter yelped in pain. Tears sprouted in dismay. He moved to push onto his hands and knees but Sabretooth’s foot was shoving down on his spine and he was flattened down again like a bug.

To Peter’s horror, the man dropped a knee on either side of his waist. One hand pinned his head down. Peter thrust an elbow back and found his arm ensnared, shoved down to the floor. He snatched the other along with it when Peter tried to pry his fingers off.

More perturbing than anything was how Sabretooth’s thumb was rubbing slow circles into his hair. His cock twitched. Peter whimpered.

“Shouldn’t’ve pussyfooted around, huh,” he whuffed directly into his ear, and Peter was gone. He writhed upwards, spine arching as he gasped. Hard. So hard and the guy had barely done anything, and Peter wanted to sob and rub his erection into the floor and die all at once, and he was too stupidly dumbfounded to stick to any of it. It hadn’t been this bad since it first came to him. All he could do was lay there panting as Sabretooth lowered down, enveloped him. The weight was tremendous on his battered frame. Peter’s cheek was glued to the frigid floor, and he stared unseeing at the entrance door he’d left behind. 

“Hey, I’ve got a fun one,” Sabretooth hummed into his ear. In a burst of clarity Peter puffed and panted and tried to wrest his arms loose but only returned to blank dizziness for his pains: the wriggling was just pushing him closer to Sabretooth and rubbing their bodies together. The moan that left him spoke more of pleasure than pain or panic, and Peter loathed himself for it. Sabretooth chuckled and licked over the hollow of his throat, a rough, cat-like swipe before he spread his fingers a little wider over his head. His thumb treaded further to his neck, the tip of its claw tickling at the top of his pulse. “If I go light as I can, how many strikes do you think it will take to hit gold?” When Peter kept gasping and made no motion to reply, Sabretooth snorted and carried on with a giddy lilt to his dank and devilish voice. “Last guy made it to eleven. But you’ve got thicker skin so I’m betting fifteen. Maybe edging on twenty. Eighteen? Any guesses?”

That claw was pressing in, not to puncture but to illustrate its point. Motionless, and just above his throbbing pulse. The jugular. Peter could only hiss, his mind half gone even with his spider sense screaming about the impending bloodshed. “Please…”

“Oh well. I’m still betting, I ain’t got nothing to lose. We’ll say fifteen, because I’m pissed and I might just slip. Ready?” The claw pressed harder. All he had to do was bend his thumb to draw it down. No blood yet, but it raked the skin all the same, and promised worse thereafter. “One.”

“No…” Peter squirmed, tried for his legs instead. Flailing them upward to strike clumsily at Sabretooth with the backs of his heels, but that only exacerbated the heat and made him thrust his rear up, rub it against the mutant’s belly. Sabretooth purred, the vibrations pulsing into Peter where they connected. He undulated against him for good measure.

“Don’t get cute now, kid. Two.” There was blood this time. Thinly it came from the shallow canal, burning like a paper cut. Sabretooth put the claw back at the start without hesitation, and drew it down again. “Three…”

There were no decipherable words in Peter’s bellowing. Just madness. Fear and lust, even now. Sabretooth was getting off on this. He could feel his erection dawning, invading the junction between his legs with its thick insistence. He even put a kiss on his temple and stayed put there, his teeth imprinting on Peter’s skin as he grinned and counted the next stroke as if it were a tender secret.

“Four.”

The blood was starting to slide down the underside of his chin in one anemic stream. His spider sense was going to burst every vessel in his brain, it was making such a racket. Sabretooth was laughing. The claw was back at the top.

“Five.”

The chink and clatter above was so distant from the claw raking down his throat that for a moment, Peter thought he was hearing things. Then there was glass raining all around them, shattering on the floor. His spider sense flared. A colossal thud shook the ground from mere feet away.

_Snikt._

_Shing._

He could feel the air streak past him as Sabretooth jutted off, backing away. Peter was free. He scrambled, still weak in the limbs as he turned over and craned his neck upwards.

Heaving, white teeth glinting in the snarl and tiny shards of glass squeezing out of the skin as it wove back together. The sleek costume. The silver of the claws.

“You keep your fucking hands _off_ him, Creed,” Logan growled, murder gleaming in his eyes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The bellows tailed the pair as they dove away, streaking through the narrow alley and erupting into the next block. Kitty let go of her when they hit new asphalt and took a sharp left. Mary had no clue where they intended to go. Any S.H.I.E.L.D. help would be coming from Dr. Strange’s house, and the Baxter Building and the Triskelion were pipe dreams if they stayed on foot.

“Kitty!” she shouted, huffing madly as she fought to keep up. 

“I know!” the other girl called back. Her hair whipped left and right as she gained their bearings, never slowing. She swung her arm out to the side. “This way!”

Their new path was a quaint indie shopping strip that strung out as far as they could see on either side. Nothing had opened yet. Pedestrians were sparse, but the few milling about were staring at the pair of breathless girls sprinting down the sidewalk. Kitty was cussing to herself with every step, and Mary wheezed inelegantly beside her. 

“Bus?”

“Where?!” Kitty snapped back at her, “We’re not waiting!”

“But if we see one—“

“Shht!”

“Where are we going?!” Mary shouted. “There’s people –“

“I don’t – no, there! There! Around that corner!”

They pushed harder, regained their speed. They swung around the block and Kitty commandeered her by the arm of her jacket into yet another scum dusted alley. The girl collapsed against a weathered gang tag, poisonous magenta against earthy red. Her head was tossed back and hand at her temple. Mary hunched and braced herself against the wall as she too scrambled to retrieve her breath.

“Think this is far enough?” The words tumbled out of her at a ninety degree incline, wispy with terror. 

Kitty matched her pace exactly. Her eyes were wrenched shut. “Probably not. This guy. That’s the guy who—“

Mary nodded. “Yeah.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“Um, um – genetically engineered suit. Liquid suit. Don’t ask me how that works. Peter’s dad and his dad were working on it and it’s made with Peter’s dad’s DNA, so it’s like—“

“This already sounds too weird for seven a.m.”

“It’s seven?”

“Who knows. Do you have your phone?”

“Oh god…” Mary fumbled through her pockets. Miraculously, it hadn’t been wedged out of her pants in the mad dash. “Who…would S.H.I.E.L.D. have made a call? Radioed?”

“They don’t know where we are yet. Someone at the house might have called by now, but..”

“Okay.” The phone nearly slipped out of her fingers. She was rattling still, and weak. She couldn’t help but think of Aunt May in the house. If Venom had turned to attack the agents inside, he might find her. He might kill her. Would bullets even do a slip of damage? Was that all the agents were armed with?

And she was here with Kitty. Whose only super power was the ability to slip through walls like a ghost, and potentially mess up electronics. Which left everything on Dr. Strange’s shoulders until back-up could arrive, and Mary wasn’t exactly sure what it was that Dr. Strange _could_ do. Turning Venom into a toad would be convenient. 

Kitty edged in next to her, clinging to her bicep, and Mary obligingly turned the phone so they could both listen head to head. There was the blare of the dial. Two rings.

The whistle of air as a black mass sailed in to crush the pavement in front of them. 

Both girls shrieked. They were tumbling again. MJ had to relive the curious sensation of floating through solid matter, seeing nothing but the terra cotta innards of bricks until they burst into a malt shop diner. The waitress dropped the chair she was moving with a short yelp. 

“What the ever-loving fuck?!” she spat at them.

They were on their feet. MJ could barely feel her legs but she was somehow still running, Kitty smoothly phasing them through each table and even the waitress herself (there was quite a lot more indignant screaming), and she could hear Kitty muttering, “Go, go, go—“

The wall shattered behind them – and that was the only word for it, because brick should crumble and not burst open at mach five into shards, but that was exactly what happened when Venom barreled through the restaurant wall. Kitty yelped, tugged again, and MJ wasn’t expecting the sudden drop but she landed on her feet when they hit the sewers below.

Kitty was cursing in the highest pitch in the human register. The sullied water splattered as high as their thighs as they bolted through it. The stench was robbing Mary of air. 

Like the restaurant wall before it, the cement overhead came apart like the blooming burst of fireworks. Kitty was quick enough to snatch her and turn her intangible before they were stoned to death by rubble the size of footballs. A familiar hiss alerted Mary of exactly how deep a mess they were in. The black web was strung straight through her chest and threaded down to the water behind her. 

“Webs?!” Kitty bemoaned. They were already dodging to the side and gunning for the black recesses and tunnels ahead. “He has webs?”

“News to me too!” Mary shot back. Peter really ought to be more forthcoming with what the creeps he came up against could do, because then crap like this happened and Mary and Kitty were so, so screwed, and she was wracking her brain for some game-changing detail. Had Peter mentioned so much as one weakness about this guy?

Maybe not to her. Or maybe there wasn’t a weakness at all.

This time the pavement crumbled clean over their heads. Kitty nearly missed her shot to save them both, hauling MJ against the wall of the sewer with a pained cry. 

“Phase us through the wall!” Mary keened. Her heart was pattering like a rabbit’s on the run.

“So we can drown in dirt?!” Kitty screeched back. 

The tidal wave hit as suddenly as a sniper’s shot when Venom dropped down. Neither girl was prepared for it, and Mary shrieked when Venom followed it with a blow that knocked a three inch hole in the cement between their heads. They both dodged, but in opposite directions. It wasn’t until she felt her knee knock solidly against the wall that she realized their mistake. 

“Kitty!” she screamed, but the wicked tips of claws closed around her middle and she was airborn and shrieking like a animal to slaughter. Venom rocketed through the air and landed with the devastation of a cannon ball. Mary was slammed down onto a sidewalk and she could feel her bones rattle. People were screaming. People were running. Blazing white gaps punctured the world around her and the blaring ache of a bruised skull encompassed all. 

She could hear Kitty screaming too. 

“NO!”

Her vision was coming back. Venom was crouched over her and Mary was seized by something deep. Primal and paralyzing. Second hand tales from Peter could do no justice to the real thing: this was a wild bull reimagined on a human frame. His skin was black and slick as ink, and cold to the touch. There were bulges of muscle she was certain no human should have, surging out of every inch of him. The jagged teeth belonged to some creature out of the deepest parts of the sea. A foot of tongue lolling out, dripping down on her forehead from above. The white eyes like ink blots, which merged so seamlessly with the arch of his face they might well have been paint and not eyes at all. 

It was looking down at her. Impassive, unreadable, save for the cruel crescent of shark teeth. 

The jaws opened wide and a noise that could shake a city apart blasted her point blank. A screech. Animal and yet not. Everything within her was wiped clear. She forgot what words were, how to form sound, how to blink. Her jeans dampened all around her groin and when the noise was over, she realized she had wet herself.

Tears piled at the corners of her eyes.

There was screaming all around, the thuds of feet as everyone around them scattered. The street was fuller than she had thought.

“LET HER GO!”

Kitty was running towards them. Venom reached up, whipping off a black line to a Prius parked across the street and lobbing it towards her. She threw up her arms and the car whistled through her, but there was still a holler of terror and a damning squelch. Kitty dropped to her knees, ashen, and the ambient screams intensified. Mary could just barely see the legs of an errant pedestrian sticking out from under the crumpled trunk, black sneakers and loose jeans, now soaking with blood.

At last she joined the shrieking. She battered at Venom with all her might and was rewarded with his palm driving into her face. It was big enough to swaddle her head, his claws nearly meeting in the back. He was squeezing her. He jabbed her head against the pavement and she saw white again and burbled wordlessly against his palm, delirious. She wasn’t sure what parts of her were working anymore. Her hair was wet. The claws had pricked into her scalp somewhere and she could feel the blood oozing out and clumping her hair in with the gravel. If he didn’t crush her face into the pavement she would explode under him unprovoked. It was nothing short of warfare from the inside, her heartbeat an assault on her ribs and the pins and needles aching that came with the gusts of air in and out of her lungs. Every muscle had melted from the bone. She couldn’t move them.

“ _Please!_ ” Kitty cried, the word cracking down the center like lightning splitting the earth. “She can’t help you! He’s gone! We don’t know where he is! Let her go - he’s not coming here!”

Mary was rising. Her neck craned as the rest of her body dangled beneath it. Panic revitalized her. Mary had to slap her hands around the trunk-like wrist and pull herself to compensate for the strain, before her neck snapped under her own weight. She kicked blindly. Her spit swelled on the ridges of her lips and his palm as it enveloped her from chin to brow, halting her protests and pleas.

The voice that licked at her ears was dark and doubled like the demonically possessed, something risen from the pits of hell. “ _ **He’ll come for heerrrr…**_ ”

Frigid whips latched onto her skin, her clothes. Few, then more, and struggle as she might she only became more tightly entwined. He let go of her face and she was not greeted with the bright sun of morning, but with the inky skin billowing open, folding her into a mess of teeth, his jaw open and his tongue lashing around her throat like a leash.

Cold.

She was screaming. Kitty was screaming.

Mary kicked and slapped and writhed, her every nerve fraught with horror, nauseous, high. Her legs went buttery and were lost, sensation stopping where the blackness had swallowed up to her hips.

Liz. Peter. Mom. Her mother, she had no idea – 

All light winked out.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She hadn’t wanted to risk them getting lost in the dirt. They would suffocate. Intangibility didn’t negate your need to breathe, and Kitty didn’t understand the specifics of it but she knew that for a fact from experience. If she wandered into the ground blind neither one of them might have come back out.

But they would have had a shot.

They _might have_.

And as Kitty kneeled on the street, hands scraping on the pavement where she had caught herself from collapsing, neck craned and transfixed by the black beast mere yards away, the weight of the maybe took her bones and her organs and her beating, frenetic heart, and crushed them all to pulp.

“Mary?” Kitty called. Screams faded into the distance as the pedestrians fled, sirens wailed closer. Kitty shivered, gaping. “ _Mary Jane?!_ ”

She’d seen it wrong. That couldn’t be right. That was too quick. That was impossible.

It – Venom – was looking her way. Teeth parting. Kitty had sunk into the ground by four inches, unaware of when she had made the switch from solid to ghost. She drew back now, curling her toes into the cement, ready to spring. 

Then it bulged. Kitty stiffened. Venom was twisting, loosing growls as its chest burgeoned from the sternum out. The skin went taut and parted into strings. Fleshy pink peeked between the gaps. 

Kitty rose, stunned and mortified, and the bulge puckered like plastic bubbling in heat. Punched out. Venom fell backwards from the force of the next burst outward, like a pummel or a kick, and the strings split open and the bulge unfurled wet and loose from its body.

Mary Jane.

Kitty’s hands flew over her mouth. 

For a moment, that motionless bundle was Mary Jane, eyes glazed and jaw dropped and clothes half melted off, but then as she tumbled to the ground her limbs convulsed. And it occurred to Kitty that her skin was unusually pink – darkening still. She could see the gooseflesh rising all over her even from this distance.

The bones were stretching. They creaked. The gooseflesh wasn’t gooseflesh, but wiry hairs sprouting out all long and shaggy, encompassing her legs and arms and across her face, and those glassy green eyes were now bleeding through with glowing, sickly yellow.

While Venom righted itself on all fours with its back in a repulsive arch, the girl it had spat out was shuddering, changing, her teeth grown long and sharp and her dainty arms suddenly thick as she grew, one foot, two feet, several feet, hunching over as she savagely eyed the monstrosity before her.

When Mary Jane bellowed, it was with the flatness and blast of a bear’s roar. Kitty nearly bowled over from the power of it, weak kneed in piercing awe and outrage.

“Are you fucking _kidding me?_ ” she hissed. 

Neither monster had ears for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, for those of you who are unfamiliar with Ultimate Marvel: [here is MJ's goblin form](http://img1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20080522040703/marveldatabase/images/thumb/8/8a/Mary_Jane_Watson_%28Earth-1610%29_001.jpg/300px-Mary_Jane_Watson_%28Earth-1610%29_001.jpg). And here's her [wiki page](http://marvel.wikia.com/Mary_Jane_Watson_%28Earth-1610%29) if you want to read about it.


End file.
